


assembly line of broken hearts

by rosie_peverell



Category: One Piece
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Zosan, M/M, Organized Crime, Slow Build, Yakuza, i tried to keep my kids away from this story, no luffy or chopper in this one sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_peverell/pseuds/rosie_peverell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sanji is a destitute sex worker living on his own in a hostile city. Zoro is a debt collector with dubious intentions. Law is an intern at the city hospital, and a regular client of Sanji's. After being kidnapped by Zoro's people for a crime he didn't commit, Sanji's life becomes infinitely more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by and is partially based on a song called Berlin, by Amanda Palmer and the Grand Theft Orchestra. The setting is entirely fictitious, though definitely located somewhere in Japan. My description of Zoro is based on [this artwork](http://jenzeejunk.tumblr.com/post/62391734988/one-piece-zoro-this-is-another-sargent-color), and my favourite realistic art of Sanji is [here](http://marincolosseo.tumblr.com/post/74470797344). They're what I pictured when I wrote this.
> 
> To new readers who have found this work post-completion, this was written sporadically over a period of around three and a half years (yes, my attention span is horrendous), with sometime as much as a year between chapters, so you will probably notice a lot of plot holes, changes in writing style, etc, and I apologise for that. That said, I think there is still some value in this story, whatever it may be, and despite its flaw I am still proud of it. If you choose to read on, thank you <3

It's so dark in the back of the van that Sanji can't see his hands in front of his face. He's aching in muscles he didn't know he had and running over everything repeatedly – _the store, the bag of cigarettes and vodka, my bike, the men, the pain, the van... the store, the bag... –_ and still thinking about it when the doors slam open and rough hands grab him.

“Get him inside,” the driver says. Sanji can tell who's who because the driver has a deep voice while the other guy, clearly not native Japanese, has a strange accent that Sanji can't place. They'd talked up front and Sanji had heard every word - _“Did the boss say he had to be in one piece?” “Nah, mate.” “Awesome.”_ The driver's definitely a native of the city, and he smells like smoke and sweat. He says, “Don't be afraid to mess him up a little.” There's a chuckle and Sanji is passed from one pair of hands to another, and they grip his arms, bringing him into a hotel foyer and through to the other side, past the potted plants and gaudy fountain to the elevator doors. He sees the bellhop leaning dead and faceless against the reception desk. Someone comes out to drag him away as Sanji watches.

Three guys surround him, all big and burly, all silent, all business. It's hard to focus after the knock he took to the head and he's still trying to make out their facial features when the doors glide open.

Elevator music plays. He struggles to stay standing and waits for an opportunity to get away.

 

 

 

The man that greets him in the room at the end of the hallway is Eurasian; angular and dark eyed and dressed in black tie with the tie undone. He's smoking and nodding as one of the lackeys whispers in his ear. He doesn't look at Sanji until the beat-up blond is deposited at his feet, breathing shallowly through his mouth because there's blood blocking his nose, ears still ringing from the punch the driver threw as they'd snatched him.

The Eurasian's hands are slender, his nails filed into perfect white half-moons. These are the hands that he wraps around the collar of Sanji's blue button-up shirt, pulling him up until their eyes are level.

“You have caused me a lot of trouble, Ryota,” he says, quiet and deadly, eyes half-lidded as he studies Sanji's face and neck.

“That's not my name,” Sanji says. He holds the Eurasian's gaze, staring back through clouded eyes. The man's fingers curl tighter around the fabric of Sanji's shirt before he slams him to the ground. He watches dispassionately as Sanji, winded and gasping, extracts himself from the wreckage of a wooden coffee table. He's on hands and knees when someone kicks him in the stomach. Pain lances through his body and he cries out like a child, thinking _oh god, they're going to kill me._

“I'm not - “

The Eurasian's shoes are heavy and polished and he slams them into Sanji's torso without expression. The lackeys look on from the massive oak desk behind them.

For a few minutes the only sound in the room is Sanji's pained cries and desperate breathing, and the Eurasian's satisfied grunts.

“You will own up,” the man murmurs, “or you will die.”

“Then I'll die,” Sanji hisses through gritted teeth, his words punctuated by a grunt as the Eurasian kicks his leg.

His body aches beyond anything he's ever felt before. He hates feeling so helpless but there's not much he can do. He's seen the guns strapped in plain sight to everyone in the building and all the men scattered throughout. They've taken over this hotel, made it their own. Infested it. He's surrounded and planless, utterly without hope.

He's picked up again and bodily thrown into the oak desk, scattering the lackeys as his side collides with the corner.

What he needs is a knight in shining armor.

That's exactly what he gets.

 

 

 

The Eurasian goes down like a sack of bricks when Sanji kicks him. He aims that one kick at the man's neck, knowing it's the only kick he's going to get. He ignores the pain that spikes up his thigh and into his hip, breathing hard as the dark haired man collapses at his feet. The others are already moving to draw their weapons and Sanji stands in the middle of the room, facing a firing squad. His unsteady hands go for his pants pockets, where there should be cigarettes and a lighter, but those are in the bag with his discarded bike somewhere on the road between the store and home. He knows now that he's never going home again.

It's impossible for Sanji to stand upright, but he tries anyway. Stretching his abused stomach muscles and putting too much weight on his left leg causes pain so intense that his vision blurs. The lackeys don't give him time to position himself. They're already raising their guns.

But then the lights go out.

Two of them fall at the same time and a second later another follows. All of them are screaming and spraying blood from their calves and thighs, the backs of their knees, the deep gashes between their shoulder-blades. Through squinted eyelids Sanji sees a figure running behind them, and a flash of silver in the air before each is felled. They drop their guns and clutch their wounds, hands and clothes and floor stained deep red.

The intruder points at a spot behind Sanji's head. “Go,” he says. Sanji turns and sees a window. Already voices are echoing up the corridor towards them, angry and growing quickly closer. With no choice but to obey he hobbles to the window, unlatches it and pulls it up. Cold air rushes in and fills his lungs as he clambers out and drops to the balcony.

The fall jars his beaten body when he lands on the metal grate of the fire escape below the balcony, and the pain is even worse when he jumps from there to the ground. The pavement is slick with ice but Sanji's shoes are fitted with grips and he's able to move easily enough. He heads for the end of the alley, seeing the streetlights glow and the smoggy darkening sky, aching to get out of there and get back home – but without his bike it seems impossible. At this time the streets are empty, and calling a cab means needing money that he doesn't have, never has, not even on nights when he's not been kidnapped and kicked around for a crime that somebody else committed.

“Can't even... fucking drive...” he says, talking to himself as he walks, spitting out blood, with his right hand on the dirty brick wall and blue eyes fixed on the golden glow ahead.

Before he can reach the end of the alleyway he hears a door bang open and footsteps coming towards him. He runs. He’s sore and limping and slipping in the snow, favouring his right leg and wincing with every step, but he reaches the end within seconds and turns left.

Inside he’s panicking, knowing that his pursuers are burning with the intent to gun him down right here and drag his body back. If he had his bike he could stand on the pedals and lose them in seconds, but the bike’s probably still on the street where he left it. _Some bastard’s stolen it and I’ll never get it back._

He’s only a few doors down the main road before someone snatches him and pulls him through a doorway, one hand curled tight around his arm and the other clapped over his mouth. He smells smoke on skin, the stench of sweat and cloying blood swimming in his head and he tries to shake his grip, but this guy is _strong._ His fingers overlap around Sanji’s bird-boned wrist, and when Sanji reaches up for the guy’s arm to pull it away he feels heat – god, so much heat – and thick cords of muscles like steel. His strength is sapping and this guy hasn’t killed him yet, so he goes limp, hoping the stranger will drop him, but instead he’s carried up the stairs like a rag doll, so he tenses again and aims hard kicks at the guy’s ankles.

The door to the stairs bangs open a few flights beneath them and angry voices echo up the stairwell, and the muscled man runs faster. “Stop that,” he growls, and hoists Sanji over his shoulder. Now Sanji’s mouth is free to shout, and shout he does.

“Put me the _fuck_ down!”

The man, puffing up the stairs and gaining momentum rather than losing it, says, “I’m helping you escape, idiot. Just shut up. We’ll be on the roof soon.”

_Helping me escape?_

“Who are you?” he says.

There’s no reply as the stranger kicks the door to the roof open. Snow swirls inside from a darkening sky and Sanji is set on his feet, but the man takes hold of his arm and leads him at a run towards the edge. He pulls back only to be jerked forward again. “Jump,” the man says, and they reach the edge, and Sanji does.

They land on the roof of the neighbouring building nearly six feet below, clearing the gap with ease, and Sanji is led around exposed pipes and a smoking chimney to the next jump, and down a sloped glass ceiling to the next one, and through a massive rooftop greenhouse to the one after that. From there it’s a terrifying leap across a massive gap onto a concrete parking structure. Sanji miraculously lands sustaining nothing more than a cruel wave of ground-shock that stabs through the soles of his feet and his ankles. He isn’t allowed to stop for a second, landing and taking off again towards the single parked car on this level – a dark green Toyota Camry with mismatched cream coloured doors and no number-plate.

The man lets go of his arm to open the door and Sanji sees him properly then, silhouetted against the golden glow of the streetlights below. He sees high cheekbones and hollow cheeks, angular eyebrows, browned skin and sharp eyes. The guy’s not as muscled or as tall as Sanji had first thought, and probably not much older than Sanji himself.

“You gonna get in the car?” the guy says.

He finds himself saying, “Yeah,” and heads towards the passenger door.

As he’s reaching for the handle he hears, “Get in the backseat and lie low.” Sanji’s too exhausted to argue, so he does as he’s told. As he curls up in the back and his aching body relaxes despite itself and all the strangeness going on he feels something digging into his spine. He reaches behind him, pulls it out, and gapes.

“Is this a _sword_?”

“Yeah,” the stranger says.

The car sputters into gear and they take off, driving in a circle down the ramps until they reach the bottom of the parking structure. A car comes screaming towards them from across the intersection and the man twists the wheel, swerving them hard to the right. Sanji hears a crunch as the enemy car collides with something behind them. From the back seat he hears a low laugh, almost feeling the waves of satisfaction.

He sits up despite the warning he was given and looks at the man’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, starting because there’s only one. The eyelid that wasn’t visible as he’d watched the man open the door is closed, with just a thin scar running vertically through his eyebrow and partway down his cheek.

"Didn’t I tell you to stay out of sight?"

"Yeah," Sanji says, but doesn’t lie down again. He’s taking this opportunity, while the two of them are no longer running, to examine this guy properly.

He’s wearing a green jacket with black stripes extending from his collar to the cuffs of his sleeves, and a pair of black pants that aren’t _quite_ big enough. His feet are clad in heavy boots and there’s a green bandana wrapped around his head and tied at the back. Perhaps it’s that which makes his eyes look so menacing. Sanji also notices three gold earrings hanging from his left ear. He looks up at the mirror again and sees that he’s being watched.

He mutters, “Eye on the road,” and the man scowls.

“If I'd known you were so ungrateful I'd have left you there to die.”

“Why didn't you? I've no clue... who you are,” he says, breathing laboriously as the car swerves to the right, knocking him against the door.

“I knew they had the wrong guy,” the driver says. “Couldn't leave you there when I knew you were innocent, I guess.”

“Did you expect me to be kissing your feet and thanking you with every breath in my poor broken body?”

Another scowl, this one deeper, perhaps a little defensive. “No.”

Sanji looks out the window to his left and realises that they've driven almost out of the city, although which side they're on, Sanji has no clue. The sky is cloudy, inky black, and snow still falls, drifting against the front window.

“Oi,” Sanji hears. “You wanna tell me where you live?”

“Yeah, sure... Hey, can you tell me your name first?”

“Why?” the driver says, tone sharp.

“Because I'd like to know what to call you.”

He doesn't think he's going to get an answer, but the man says, “Zoro Roronoa.” A pause, then, “What's yours?”

“Sanji.”

“Last name?”

“Not as far as you're concerned.”

Zoro sighs and looks at Sanji through the rear-view mirror again. “You look awful. You're not gonna bleed out in the back of my car, are you?”

“This is your car? I'm surprised you're allowed one, the way you drive.”

“Oi, shut it!”

“You saving my life won't mean much if you kill us in a car crash.”

“My driving is fine!”

“So would you like to explain to me where we're going? I'm pretty sure you're heading towards the highway out of the city.”

“I was trying to lose them,” Zoro says, now looking not quite so sure of himself. He does a u-turn and Sanji grins. He's not sure why needling this guy is so fun. If anything he should be treading on thin ice right now, what with Zoro's displays of considerable strength and odd satisfaction after causing injury. But he doesn't feel threatened so much as wary, because Zoro's explanation - “I knew you were innocent” - doesn't sit quite right with him. He's figured out by now that Zoro was the one who had flashed through the room after the Eurasian went down and disarmed the guards, and judging by his explanation, however much of a lie it may be, Sanji can safely assume that Zoro is, or was, one of _them_.

Them being the damn bastards who'd beaten him half to death because they'd _thought_ he was some criminal who'd done them wrong.

Now he's not sure whether or not he should tell Zoro where he lives. He could be planning something insidious. But despite his misgivings Sanji takes a leap. He lies back down on the seat and closes his eyes, trusting Zoro to get him home.

 

 

 

He wakes when the car jerks to a stop. The side door opens and strong hands pull him out, taking care not to touch his torso, where the bruises are, or his injured leg, which feels like dead weight. Cold wind and snow bite the exposed skin on his face, neck, hands, and the parts of his stomach where leaning against Zoro has caused his shirt to twist and ride up. Zoro carries him this way, with Sanji's arm slung over his broad shoulders, to the front door.

Sanji manages to mumble, “No key.” It's in the bag he left on the road along with his bike and his cigarettes. Zoro grumbles and walks him back to the car. He sits in the driver's seat like a doll positioned by a child while Zoro picks the lock. It takes some time – he's obviously not very practiced at it – but time seems to be moving in a very strange way. Like it no longer matters.

He feels like he might float away at any second. The cold is the only thing reminding him that he's still awake, and the warmth of the seat beneath him where Zoro was sitting minutes before. The car is still running and the clock is still on. Green lights say 1.35am, but it can't have been long past midnight when he'd given Zoro the directions, and it shouldn't have taken over an hour to get here.

A hand, again, tugging at his forearm. He's never been this tired, never felt so utterly disorientated, not even while high. He lets Zoro do most of the work, moving only to half-lift half-drag his feet on the way to the open front door.

Inside it's cold and dark and Sanji breathes a thankful sigh. He feels like sleeping for a thousand years. If he could wake up and find the city washed away, leaving only him and the trees standing he would be happy. He would be free. But Zoro's fumbling his way to the bedroom and switching on the light (and he _flinches_ because it's brighter than the sun) and laying him down on the bed, wasting no time in stripping him of his shirt and poking at his wounds.

He curls up like a hedgehog, protecting his middle. Zoro's fingers are rough and invasive. “Let me sleep,” Sanji says. Light filters through his closed eyelids and he groans.

“I have to make sure you wont die.”

Sanji waves a hand in Zoro's general direction and says, “Why do you care? You can leave me here. I don't have anything worth waking up for anyway.”

He can't see or feel Zoro's reaction but he hears the door close after a few seconds have passed, and he thinks _finally._

But then the mattress slouches where his back lies and there's a slight sensation of falling until Zoro settles at his back. It's a double bed with plenty of room, and Sanji can't so much as feel Zoro's breath but he knows he's there, knows he's boring holes into the back of Sanji's skull with one dark, guarded eye.

“Turn off the light,” Sanji orders. Zoro sighs and stands up again. He flicks the switch and there's a blessed absence of anything except the mattress, slouching again and eventually stilling as Zoro finds a comfortable position.

“I'm only here to make sure you last the night,” Zoro says, from behind him. “I'll be gone in the morning.”

Sanji says, “Good,” and sleep takes him.

 

 

 

When he wakes up there's a bag of groceries on the bench and money on the tiny dining table.

Sanji winces when he stands up out of bed. The pain has lessened with sleep but is still far from gone altogether. His legs ache, his head is pounding and his torso is so bruised that there's almost no clear skin left. He forgets all this when he sees the money and food. There's no note but he knows who it's from. He knows that Zoro didn't take Sanji's money and go to the store for him because Sanji _has_ no money. No, Zoro paid for all that out of his own damn pockets.

He resists throwing the milk against the wall. He resists opening the window and scattering the green bills to the wind. He resists going outside and hunting Zoro's ass down and beating him over the head with one of the heavy paper bags.

But the money's nothing compared to the surprise he feels when he steps into the living room and finds Zoro asleep on the couch.

For a moment Sanji can only stare, because one: without his bandana it's immediately obvious to anyone that this idiot has _green hair_ , and two: he realises that he doesn't have to hunt Zoro down to kick his ass. His ass has been delivered, and it's asleep in his home.

But maybe not. Zoro lifts his head a few inches and opens his one eye only moments after Sanji enters the room. Sanji leans against the door frame, long legs crossed, wishing he had a cigarette just to have something to do with his hands. In the end he only says, “What are you doing here?”

Zoro says, “G't lost,” and lowers his head back onto the cushion, eye closing.

“You can't tell me to get lost in my own home -”

“Not get lost, _got_ lost. As in it's a big city and I don't know the area, and somehow I ended up here again.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since this morning, obviously, I -”

“In the city.”

“Six months.”

“And you _still_ don't know your way around?” Sanji can't help it – despite the pain, despite the sword he's just now noticed lying on the coffee table, despite that he's made it a rule not to engage with strange men trespassing on his property or in his life, he laughs. He's doubling over from the force of it, clutching his stomach with one hand and the door frame with the other. Zoro's shouting at him from the couch but he doesn't care. This moss-haired man isn't intimidating at all. He's an _idiot_.

When he stops laughing he repeats this thought aloud. “You can beat up guys holding machine guns and you can jump buildings and you can, I'm guessing, use that sword you've been carrying around, but you can also get lost in a city covered in signs all pointing your way.” He laughs again. “And you can't drive for shit.”

Zoro's hand is at his throat and pushing him against the door frame before he's registered that the other man's even left the couch. The sharp edge digs into his bruised spine and he winces, but only a little.

Zoro is grinning and there's a dark shadow over his eyes and for a second, Sanji is scared again. He may be healing but he's still pretty weak, and even when uninjured he's kind of fragile. He looks down and sees that the sword is in Zoro's hand. It's a black blade with purple waves washing down the shining metal, and Zoro holds it like he knows exactly what he's doing with it.

“You gonna kill me,” Sanji wheezes, “immediately after saving my life?”

Zoro drops him. He does it slowly, fingers releasing their hold one by one, letting Sanji slide down the door frame until his toes touch the floor. He raises that same hand and slaps his cheek, soft enough that his head doesn't move, hard enough that it stings a little, and points so that Sanji goes a little cross-eyed.

“Maybe,” he says. “If Tatsuya and his guys don't get you first.”

“That's his name?”

“No. It's just what we called him.”

“He would have seen you back there. Probably a lot of them did. They'll be coming for you, too.” Sanji's fear that Zoro once worked for those bastards has been confirmed, but what scares him more is that he might _still_ work for them. He doesn't look cunning, or even very smart, but then Sanji doesn't know him well at all.

Zoro sits back down. “I know.” He looks too relaxed for a man whose life is potentially in massive danger. Sanji's whole body is tense, afraid. His eyes keep darting to the window, expecting to see someone standing there, watching him, but Zoro is leaning back with his hands behind his head and his mouth curled in a small smile.

“I hope you know how to do more with that sword than just hold it and look cool,” Sanji says. The smile slips from Zoro's face and he sits up.

“Want me to try it out on you?” Zoro says, eyes narrowed.

Sanji sighs. “Let me cook dinner first.”

On his way out the door he says, “I hope you don't mind me using the food you bought.”

“That's what it's there for,” Zoro replies, annoyed. Sanji can't help but smile a little. For a moment he allows himself to feel safe. Or safer. But just for a moment.

 

 

 

He's midway through preparing dinner when he hears the fridge door open, and then, “Got any sake?” He turns around to see Zoro with his head basically inside the thing, peering right to the back of the shelves.

“Sake, seriously? Does I look like I can afford that shit? I can barely pay rent.”

“Beer, vodka, anything...” Further poking around confirms that no, Sanji has nothing of the sort. Even with the few bags Zoro bought there's a meager amount of food – some frozen vegetables, a bag of oranges, some packets of rice and noodles and tins of sauces. Sanji had ignored all of that in favour of the things Zoro left on the kitchen table. He did, at least, have the foresight to put the chicken in the fridge, but the rest was still bagged up when Sanji enters the kitchen, and he took his time unwrapping it all.

There's cheese, pasta, real fresh fruit and vegetables and a whole chicken, as well as soya sauce and other ingredients for a stir-fry. He stocks most of the food in the fridge then cooks the chicken in a pan on the stove, just enough that it's no longer raw and very slightly browned, then adds it to the simmering wok full of green beans, onion, carrot and honey soy sauce. The smell filters through every room of the house, and Sanji inhales deeply.

While the chicken absorbs the sauce and the vegetables finish cooking he puts on some rice, sets the table and brings two bottles of beer out of the bottom of the pantry. Zoro's face lights up when he sees Sanji putting them in the fridge door. Sanji realises that it's the first time he's smiled since their meeting the night before.

Zoro eats quickly, and drinks a lot. His constitution is amazing, though. Four bottles and he's barely tipsy, a fifth and he's getting there. Sanji manages one and half before his vision starts to waver.

“This is pretty good,” Zoro says. He takes a third helping of rice and another spoonful of chicken stir-fry, and says, “You a cook or something?”

“No,” Sanji sighs.

“What do you do?”

“I'd rather not tell you... not at dinner.”

“Ah, jeez, is it something gross?” Zoro's still eating, speaking between mouthfuls. Sanji's plate is long cleared. He wants to get up and do the dishes but etiquette dictates that he sit and wait for everyone to be finished.

“Most people think so.”

“Just tell me. I can handle it.”

“I have sex with people for money.”

It happens that Zoro has chosen to take a mouthful of beer at this moment, and he promptly chokes on it. A few swift thumps to the back with an open palm and he's mostly okay again, but Sanji can't tell whether the redness in his cheeks and earlobes is from this near-death experience or something else. Perhaps it's a combination of both. Either way, Zoro has some trouble getting his next words out.

“Are you.... I mean... shit, maybe I shouldn't have asked after all.”

Sanji says nothing. He scratches at the whorls of wood on the tabletop as Zoro shovels a few more massive spoonfuls of rice into his mouth. As soon as his bowl is empty he scoops it up and deposits it on the bench, and, reaching up to scrub at his ridiculous hair, mumbles something about being tired. Sanji can almost feel Zoro side-eying him as he leaves the room, and it's not really any wonder that he's chosen to escape rather than confront this new information. Sanji wouldn't have expected anything else.

There's more that Zoro doesn't know, of course. Half the story gets Sanji some weird looks and general avoidance. The full story could get him killed. He doesn't know Zoro one iota beyond the fact that he's really strong and straight-to-the-point, and that he possibly enjoys hurting people a little too much. The guy could be a homophobe on top of that, and in his current weakened state Sanji knows he wouldn't be able to do much beyond hold the other man off for a few minutes.

He leaves the dishes to dry on the draining board, puts on his socks and shoes, grabs his coat and goes to the lounge. Zoro is asleep on the couch again, this time lying across the cushions and snoring, with one arm hanging over the edge. Sanji stands in the doorway for a moment, noting the way that Zoro's face softens when he sleeps, how his forehead has smoothed and how his body has slackened. Sanji can't bring himself to wake him and ask him to go, even though it's what he wants.

It's no longer snowing and the sky is clear, and in the frosty air Sanji's breath clouds as he walks. Without his bike getting there will take much longer, and it gives him more time to think.

He wishes for his bike, and tries not to think too much, and hopes that Zoro is gone when he gets back.

 

 

 

“Here,” Smoker says. He throws a roll of bills on the bedside table. Same amount as last week, and the week before, and the week before that. Sanji watches him shrug on his heavy coat and lace his heavy boots while Sanji sits on the edge of the bed dressed only in an open blue button-down shirt, wearing an expression of fake boredom to cover up the pain.

Thirty minutes later there's a knock at the door. Sanji, showered and dressed, mutters, “Right on time, as usual.” He opens the door and standing on the motel balcony is a young man with deep blue hair and tired eyes. He nods and steps inside, shedding his black woolen coat and placing it on the armchair in the corner.

 

The way Law kisses can best be described as hungry. He's an intern at the city hospital with no time for relationships, and this hour or two every couple of weeks is the only personal connection he allows himself to have. The guys at the hospital are great, he said once, but they're just as busy as him, and it's not a good idea to mix work and sex, anyway.

He breaks the kiss and reaches for his jacket, going into the left pocket and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. “I bought these for you,” he says.

“After,” Sanji replies.

Even when Law's trying to be rough he's gentle. It's a far sight better than Smoker's calloused hands and the way they grip Sanji's hips hard enough to leave bruises. Law kisses around the purple and yellow on Sanji's stomach and chest, starting from his hipbone until he reaches the top of his ribs, before coming up to catch his mouth again. “I've been waiting for this,” Law whispers. “I wait for it all week.”

“So do I,” Sanji says. He's not lying.

 

Sometimes Sanji sees that Law's embarrassed to be doing this, to bare himself this way – he sees that he needs it, too. Coaxing Law to the finish is never difficult. The other man's needs run so deep that once he has Sanji touching him, his reservations fly away with his serious constitution and his nerves become exposed like stripped wires. “Sanji, oh god -”

“Come on,” Sanji breathes, thrusting harder. “You're so close...” He clutches Law's hips and rolls his own, moving to a practiced rhythm, stroking in and out as Law pants above him. Sanji pulls Law gently down and nips and sucks on his neck, grasping his hair and pulling him further until his nose rests in the groove of Sanji's neck. He moans, and Law comes.

Sometimes it's so easy that Sanji wonders why they don't do this every night.

 

“You bought the expensive ones again.” Sanji scolds.

“You like them, don't you?” Law knows exactly what Sanji likes – which smokes, which motels, which words to say and where to touch. He knows that Sanji never cuddles his clients, but that lazily sprawling together on the bed is just fine, and a few cigarettes between them before they leave one another is even better.

Law's head is on Sanji chest and his left arm is curled into Sanji's side, but aside from that they don't touch. He's undressed but for his socks and in his right hand is a cigarette, dropping ash near Sanji's bellybutton, but his legs lie miles away across the bed and his hips are guarded by the red sheets.

While they lie there Sanji tells Law about the night before, and Law quietly listens, reacting little. He only cuts in when Sanji mentions the Eurasian.

“He sounds dangerous,” he says.

“Yeah, I got that feeling...” Sanji sighs. “It's not just all the men under his command or the guns or the fact that they've managed to take over an entire hotel in the middle of the city – it's the way he talks. Like he could rip me apart with his bare hands.”

“Only I'm allowed to do that.”

Sanji lifts a hand to the back of Law's neck, feeling a shudder run through the other man's body. His fingers move absentmindedly, and he forgets what he was going to say.

“Do you need my help?” Law says, a quiet minute later.

“I don't want it.”

“Okay.”

 

"One day you're going to stop paying me to do this,” Sanji says from the bed, blowing smoke at the ceiling.

“You shouldn't smoke,” Law replies.

“You do it too,” Sanji says.

“Only with you,” Law says. “You do it too much. It's bad for your health.” He closes the door and leaves Sanji to an empty quiet room.

Sanji says to the room, “That's the point.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Killing things is not so hard,_   
>  _It's hurting that's the hardest part,_   
>  _And when the wizard gets to me,_   
>  _I'm asking for a smaller heart._

Zoro really is gone when Sanji gets home from the motel, but evidence of his stay in Sanji's home is everywhere. When Sanji steps through the unlocked front door the first thing he sees is the cash on the hallway table. He passes it and goes to the kitchen, flicking on the light and seeing the dishes from last night's dinner, dry on the rack by the sink. In the bedroom he finds a long black sock that doesn't belong to him on the floor beneath the windowsill.

He sighs, and leaves it all as is – even the rumpled bedsheets on the left side of the double bed, pushed towards the centre as Zoro had risen that morning.

Waves of fatigue assault him as he shuffles back down the hallway to the bathroom. Even brushing his teeth seems like a massive effort, as does pulling on a sweater and shedding his socks and shoes.

Finally Sanji climbs into bed, pulling the thin duvet and three extra blankets almost right up over his head as he draws his legs up as far as they will comfortably go, trying to warm up as fast as possible.

Just as he's drifting off his phone vibrates harshly on the bedside table. He blinks at the sudden flush of blue light and mutters, “What shitty bastard's texting me at this time of night...” but the last words die on his tongue when he sees Law's name on the screen.

The text consists of five short words: _Off work Friday. Motel, 10pm_.

Feigning annoyance even to himself, Sanji continues to mutter as he taps out a reply. “Bossy shithead... texting two days in advance, doesn't he think that I might have other plans...” But his reply is a lighthearted _sure, don't forget the cigarettes :)_ because Sanji knows it's too late to pretend that he doesn't look forward to seeing Law every fortnight, or week if he's lucky. It's not the expensive cigarettes or the money – it's the company. Law's the only one who stays longer than strictly needed, the only one who offers to help Sanji with his problems.

Still, Sanji can't help but wonder why he's been lucky enough to book two nights with Law this week. It's highly unusual, partly because Sanji knows that Law generally can't afford him on a twice-per-week basis, and partly because, Sanji's sure, he's holding himself back for other, more internalised reasons.

The phone vibrates in his hand and he opens the text quickly. _Fine_ , it says. _But I'm paying you, remember?_

_take it out of this week's if you like._

_You know I wont._

Sanji does know, very well. He finds Law's almost begrudging, yet unfailingly constant kindness to him very sweet, and he falls asleep smiling about it, last unsent text fading to blackness on his screen.

 

 

It's still dark when Sanji wakes again. He's barely opened his eyes before he hears a volley of sharp taps on his windowpane. The shock of the noise and the awful image of a gang of men with heavy artillery preparing to murder him in his home wake him immediately, and he sits up gasping for air. He throws the blankets off and retreats to the wall furthest from the window, scrabbling on the surface of the dresser for his switchblade.

When he finally focusses on the source of the noise he sees a flash of green hair and a mean smirk and his shoulders relax in seconds.

“You've gotta be shitting me,” he mutters.

It's chilly out in the hall, and Sanji groans as he leaves the slightly warmer cuccoon of his bedroom and shuffles barefoot to the front door, opening it slowly and giving the man standing on his doorstep a steady glare.

He waits. Snow continues to fall, speckling Zoro's coat and hair with white and deepening the pile around the newly trodden groove that runs to Sanji's front steps.

“Well?” Sanji says, eyebrows raising.

“Well _what_?” Zoro says, brow furrowing, eye darkening.

“What are you doing here at this time of night? What are you doing here at all?”

“I need to talk to you,” Zoro snaps.

“About what? Haven't you established that I'm not going to drop dead?”

Zoro clenches his teeth and blows air through his nostrils, fixing Sanji with a glare that manages to be both scary and pleading. “Could you just let me in? I tried to make sure I wasn't followed but you never know-”

“Followed? Who's _following_ you?”

“The people I need to talk to you about! Let me in, you damn dartboard!”

Zoro uses the moments where Sanji is spluttering over 'dartboard' to push his way into the house. He lets Sanji shut the door as he makes his way down the hall to the tiny lounge. Sanji shivers as he follows, rubbing the cool skin of his forearms quickly to generate some heat, and not getting anywhere much at all.

“You cold?” Zoro says nonchalantly when Sanji enters the room, not looking at his reluctant host. Sanji eyes the sword that Zoro is setting softly against the arm of his chair. He huffs and straightens his arms. “No.”

“Tatsuya's close to figuring out where you live,” Zoro starts, watching Sanji take a seat in the old armchair next to the television set. A giant neon danger sign starts to flash in Sanji's head. “He's been asking around, circulating a photo of you, getting the guys who work for him to hit all the bars. It's only a matter of time before someone recognises you.”

“I don't go to any bars,” Sanji says. “And that photo looks nothing like me.”

“Whatever,” Zoro grimaces. “I just thought you should know.”

“Why?”

“Why? I told you yesterday, didn't I? I'm not gonna let some innocent guy take the fall for someone else's crime!”

“What are you, my bodyguard? You've told me, now piss off.”

“Happily,” Zoro snaps, snatching up his sword. He stalks through the door without looking back, and Sanji's left with an cold empty room, listening to the sound of Zoro's booted feet recede down the wooden hallway, and finally fade to... nothing. And then the nothing turns to stomping and within seconds Zoro is back in the room with him, dragging him by the front of his shirt to the guest bedroom, where they crouch, Zoro panting, Sanji coughing, behind the half-empty boxes stacked where a bed would normally be. Before Sanji can ask Zoro whispers, “They're here.”

Hot panic flashes through Sanji's body, weakening his knees and tightening his chest. He elbows Zoro, colliding with a dull _thunk_ with his collarbone. The other man hisses as Sanji whispers, “I thought you said he was _close_ , not fucking _there_.”

“I underestimated him, clearly,” Zoro whispers back through gritted teeth. “Look, we've got to hurry outta here before they break down the door -”

“It's unlocked,” Sanji says dully, heart sinking as the sound of a squeaking hinge and a single, cautious boot touching down on the rough wooden floor drifts towards them. He feels Zoro exhale deeply next to him, and watches in horror as the other man begins to stand, already unsheathing the sword at his hip. The metal makes a cruel singing sound that sends a shiver down Sanji's spine.

“You can't just rush out there!” he says, half-rising, considering throwing himself between Zoro and the half-open door, which Zoro is slowly moving towards and which keeps drawing Sanji's gaze like a ticking bomb. “We have to go!”

Zoro looks down at him. “Is there a back exit?”

Sanji pauses. “No,” he says, “but there's a window.” He points behind him, at the wall of boxes. With alarming speed Zoro dismantles the wall and exposes a single dirty window. With some difficulty he forces it open, making a gap just big enough to squeeze through. Sanji flinches at the sound of someone banging his bedroom door open and climbs over the boxes to Zoro. From the corner of his eye he catches a glint of that cruel steel as he clambers through the window and drops as gracefully as he can to the frosty ground below, and suddenly Sanji feels immensely grateful that Zoro, whoever he is, always seems to show up at precisely the right time. He may not like the man particularly much, but he can't deny that Zoro hasn't been incredibly useful in keeping him alive these last couple of days.

Zoro drops down next to him within moments. He looks left, then right, then above them to the roof, and seeing no immediate danger he leads Sanji over the low back garden wall and down the silent street, keeping them in the deepest shadows possible, hiding behind every few cars to check their surroundings once again before moving silent as a shadow through the night. Sanji finds himself copying Zoro's movements. The whole thing has a sort of rhythm to it, and Zoro doesn't appear at all uncomfortable with sneaking through the city streets holding a sword. _He's clearly done this – or something like it – before_ , Sanji muses.

Finally, as they near the edge of Sanji's residential district and the brighter lights of the city centre come into view, Zoro starts to slow down. “You got an idea of where we're going?” Sanji says, panting just a little. He notes with exasperation the wheezing in the back of his throat and curses those cigarettes even as he wishes he had one in his hand right now.

“It's obvious we can't go back to your place,” Zoro says. “I'd say you'd be risking death by going there again at all.”

“Oh, that's great!” Sanji exclaims, throwing his hands into the air. “My shitty life keeps getting better, huh? As if it wasn't bad enough before all this – now I have to deal with armed thugs and a damn crime lord, homelessness, the constant threat of death... and _you_.”

Zoro growls and jabs his chest hard enough to make him take a step backwards, and Sanji immediately launches himself back at the other man, shoving him with both hands into the brick wall behind him. It's not a very hard push, by any means. Zoro's basically _built_ like the brick wall anyway, and Sanji's wrists ache at the forceful contact with his tensed muscles, so maybe it's surprise more than anything that makes Zoro step back, but he doesn't strike Sanji a second time. Instead he catches Sanji's arms in his hands as he steps backwards, bringing Sanji with him. Zoro's eye is cold, but there's a definite smirk on his face too. Sanji gulps.

“You shut your mouth and follow me, you damned pinwheel.” He tightens his grip and leans slightly closer, smirk deepening as Sanji winces. “You'd be as good as dead without me, and you can complain all you want, but you're the one who has to decide whether to stay or whether to go.”

Sanji blinks. _It all keeps coming back to this_ , he thinks. _It's true that I'd be dead without him, but I never asked him to help me. He refuses to leave me alone... it's as if he's upholding part of a contract, only he's the only who signed it, and he's bound to protect me 'til I die or leave of my volition. He's written all these rules for himself without taking my feelings into account. It's so fuckin' backwards..._

Something sparks in Sanji's head, and suddenly the cold and the painful hold Zoro has on his arms just falls away.

_You remember what he said, don't you?_

_“I knew they had the wrong guy... couldn't leave you there when I knew you were innocent, I guess.” … “I'm not gonna let some innocent guy take the fall for someone else's crime!”_

The sheer _obviousness_ of it all strikes Sanji like a slap in the face and despite how ridiculous and betrayed he feels, despite the crushing danger he's still in and how the snow isn't quite deep enough to mask any sound he makes, laughter bubbles up in Sanji's throat and explodes from between his lips, splitting the cold early morning air and echoing down the street. Zoro's palm claps over his mouth almost at once, but Sanji keeps laughing, even as Zoro drags him by one arm down the street.

Sanji's mirth dies away almost as soon as it had started. He massages his sore stomach muscles and hiccups once, twice, angrily wrenching his arm from Zoro's grip. Standing in the middle of the street as snow falls softly all around him, he says, “It was you, wasn't it?” There's not a trace of humour in his voice now, and his hands are shaking with anger.

There's barely a trace of anything in Zoro's. “Not now...” he says. If there's any emotion to be found in those words it's a touch of resignation, maybe even sadness, though Sanji dismisses the idea of Zoro feeling truly sad for him as ridiculous.

“You stole the money. You set me up. And your shitty guilty conscious is the only reason I'm still alive. Am I right?”

“Could we wait until we get inside to do this?” Zoro says.

“No, you asshole! We're doing this now!” Without thought for the differences in their strength or the fact that the noise he's making could be drawing Tatsuya's men right to them, Sanji punches Zoro in the face.

He puts all of his anger into the blow, swinging his arm back and forward again with all the strength he can muster – granted it's not much, but it's enough to make Zoro stumble. Through the pain in his hand he grins, and feels a surge of satisfaction when his follow-up attack, a direct kick to Zoro's kneecap, draws a pained gasp from the man's lips. As soon as Sanji steadies himself he rushes Zoro, finally knocking him down onto the hard, rain-damp road. Slightly off balance, Sanji follows.

He straddles Zoro's legs as if he'd meant to fall, and pins his forearms under straightened elbows and shoulders purposeful with keeping the bigger man down. Zoro's eye is furious but it's not fixed on Sanji – in fact he seems to be looking anywhere but at the man currently sitting on top of him.

“Look at me!” Sanji shouts. He punches Zoro's shoulder, grinding into the muscle with his knuckles, enjoying the way it makes Zoro wince. Faintly he remembers that low laugh from the front seat of Zoro's car following the likely fatal crash of their pursuers. At the time it had shocked him, but Sanji is starting to understand it. He wants to make Zoro pay. He wants to hurt him.

Zoro's eye finally focusses on him. His body shifts under Sanji's and Sanji realises with horror that despite all his efforts he can barely keep him on the ground. Zoro's muscles are hardly strained at all as he sits up and pushes Sanji backwards onto the road. “We'll do this inside,” Zoro says. He jabs a thumb at the building behind him. “This is where I live. C'mon.”

Sanji tries his darndest not to look meek as he follows Zoro through the front door, but the anger saps from his fists and the glare drains from his eyes when the dry heat of the empty foyer hits him. Even the lift up to the third floor is downright cosy, and the carpeted hallway is no better. As Zoro turns the lock in the door of apartment 3B, Sanji starts to feel drowsy. “This was part of your plan, right?” he mutters. Zoro raises one eyebrow, and says nothing. “Show a man who's been cold for a year a little warmth and he loses the will to fight... you bastard... we'll continue this fight tomorrow, though... you betcha...”

Zoro shows him the three seater sofa and Sanji sits, somehow ending up flat on his back and asleep in minutes. The last words out of his mouth are “Sly bastard...” and through the corner of one half lidded eye, hazily attempting to focuss on his new host, Sanji could swear he sees the hint of a smile.

 

 

“So this is your place?” Sanji says, reaching for his third bread roll with one hand and sliding the tub of margarine towards himself with the other.

“Technically, yeah,” Zoro nods. “It's leased to me by my Uncle Mihawk. He's away on business in Tokyo, so I have it to myself for the next couple weeks.”

“Does your uncle know his nephew is a hunted criminal?” Sanji says dryly, expecting to get another twitch out of Zoro's face (he's been counting them – six so far this morning), but being sorely disappointed by the reappearance of Zoro's scary trademark grin.

“I don't think he'd have the right to judge even if he did know,” Zoro says, taking the butter out from under Sanji's knife and spreading it on his own third bread roll.

“A family of criminals, huh...”

“Don't think you're getting a family history out of me,” Zoro says. “You know enough already.”

“Tch, as if I give a shit,” Sanji scowls. “The only thing I want out of you right now is a damn explanation for all the crap you've put me through. You can't pull that 'wont let an innocent man die' bullshit on me either.” He points his knife at Zoro, aiming right at the middle of his forehead. “Don't think I'll excuse you letting me beat you into the ground yesterday either. I know you can fight, so don't hold yourself back for my sake.”

“You act like you _want_ to be killed...” Zoro mutters.

“Idiot! What I want is not to be lied to and treated like a fucking invalid!” Sanji lets his gaze bore into the spot between Zoro's lowered eyes. He watches the vein in the side of his head pulse and waits for Zoro to retaliate, as Sanji knows he will eventually. _I've had just about enough of this guy's measured restraint, of his carefulness for my worthless life, of his stupid grabbing me and running and that smirk and his shitty values. I really wish he'd_ – “Just come out and say it, coward!”

Zoro's reaction is more than Sanji could've hoped for. With one fluid motion he picks up his plate and flings it at the wall behind Sanji's head, and standing and kicking his chair back he steps around to Sanji's side of the table and drives Sanji, chair and all, into the wall, crunching over shards of plate in his bare feet. His face betrays no pain, only anger.

“You were right,” Zoro hisses. “It was me. I'm the reason for your screwed up life and all the men who are after you.”

“Tell me why you give a shit if I take the fall,” Sanji says.

“Because,” Zoro says, “when I saw Tatsuya pushing you around his office, when I heard those pitiful whimpers coming from your throat and saw your bird-thin wrists and starved face I pitied you. I couldn't bring myself to let him do it, even though it was me who pointed you out and bought you in, even though under normal circumstances I would've been more than happy to let him wring your neck.”

“I can't believe you spared me because I haven't had a square meal in a few weeks. You're the weak one,” he spits out, “and I don't need your fucking pity.”

They're both breathing hard, Sanji more so. “What I _need_ is a cigarette,” he sighs. “Let me go.”

Zoro lets go of the chair without a word. He watches as Sanji picks his way around the broken bits of plate and sits heavily on the sofa. Sanji looks at his shaking hands and mutters, “Maybe a nicotine patch would do, huh...”

He senses Zoro standing behind him and sighs. Without thought he says, “The thing is... I get it.” He almost feels the question mark hanging over Zoro's head, watches as the other man walks past him and sits on the adjacent sofa, leaning back into the cushions with legs spread wide. He doesn't keep his eyes on Zoro, though. As he speaks he looks up at the ceiling, assuming that Zoro will keep listening. “A few years ago I was working in a swanky restaurant a couple cities over. The whole reason I'm here is cause I lost that job – and three subsequent others – for taking pity on customers who couldn't pay and giving out meals for free. Word got around and pretty soon it was impossible for me to find new work, and since cooking is all I know how to do worth a damn...” He chuckles. “I guess it's not the only thing, though, right? I'd be dead if it were.”

“So that's why you're out here,” Zoro says quietly. “For helping the hungry.”

“I guess.” Sanji lowers his gaze and finds Zoro staring right at him. “Maybe if I'd been a little more heartless I wouldn't be in this mess.”

“Same here.” Zoro crosses his arms. “Tatsuya was a pretty bad boss, though. No health benefits.” He looks at Sanji sideways, smiling just a little, and Sanji finds himself smiling back despite the traces of anger still burning hot in his gut.

“Listen,” Zoro says suddenly, “you can stay here for as long as it takes to sort this whole thing out, but on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“I'm not a great cook, so... in return for your cooking skills I'll give you somewhere to sleep and protect your stupid ass until you get stronger... if need be. I don't doubt you'll want to deal with Tatsuya yourself.”

“Yeah, you're right about that... it may be your fault, but he's the one who nearly beat me to death. Getting rid of him is the only way we're getting out of this mess, anyway.”

Zoro nods, eye twitching the way it does when he's annoyed.

“Oh,” Sanji adds, “this is a pretty big place, right? I assume you have a spare bedroom? I don't like the idea of spending the rest of my time here on your sofa.”

Zoro grits his teeth and points down the hallway. “Second door on the left.”

“Thanks.” As he heads down the hall Sanji says over his shoulder, “And hey, I had a look in your pantry this morning... if I'm gonna cook for you I'll need some ingredients!” As an afterthought he pokes his head back around the doorframe, “And some cigarettes!”

Zoro's growls follow the door as it closes, and Sanji can't help but grin. _Sure he's a little scary, but man is it fun to needle him..._

 

 

_Off work Friday. Motel, 10pm._

Sanji opens the text a third time, just to make sure it's really there. _The date's right._ He stares out of the bus window, barely taking in the glistening, post-downpour cityscape as it passes by. He checks his watch. _9.45pm. Ten more minutes to get to the bus stop. Seven to walk to the motel, less than five if I rush. He should be there waiting. If my hunch is right, this is more than just a social visit. Something's wrong._

The last two days had passed without incident. Sanji's cooking kept Zoro happy enough, and though they'd passed insults back and forth with an almost unhealthy vigor, Sanji hadn't felt the need to beat the living daylights out of his host just yet, though God knew Zoro was asking for it.  
Through his own cooking and Zoro's admittedly very comfortable guest bedroom (which Sanji suspected also doubled as the uncle's room when the man was in town), Sanji felt a little stronger. Some colour had returned to his pale cheeks, and his reflexes in the kitchen were getting better. With every meal he cooked he was reminded more and more of the old days – those busy, sweltering, deafeningly loud kitchens back in Tokyo; the dinner rush, the smoke breaks, the easy chats he'd had with his coworkers. He missed it every day, but Zoro's tiny kitchen and the murmur of the television set in harmony with Zoro's almost constant snoring was all he had now.

That and Law, and the promise of _Motel, 10pm_.

Sanji steps off the bus and starts an easy stroll down the street, deciding to take his time. It's an unseasonably warm night, and the rain has left a pleasant clean smell in the air. He tells himself that now he's here he's not avoiding whatever is about to happen in that motel, but there's an overwhelming sense of... something coming from that text message. Two meetings in a week just doesn't happen.

With every step Sanji's legs feel heavier.

_Please, oh please don't let it be too bad._

He pushes the door to 120 open and steps inside, casting around the dim room for Law, but the Doctor's hands are on him before he's registered Law's presence.

“You took long enough,” Sanji hears.

“Sorry, I -” His words are smothered by a kiss, rough and hot. Every part of Law's body is heat, smothering him. Law pushes the door closed and pushes Sanji against it, pulling Sanji's shirt over his head and running his hands up his thin torso. Sanji knows instinctively that for the first time since meeting Law, he'll be coming away from this with bruises.

Law lets go of Sanji's mouth to breathe, but keeps him pinned against the wall. Sanji can't say he doesn't like this sudden change of heart.

He grins, already kicking off his shoes. “I knew you liked it rough, you bastard. I _knew_ you'd been holding out on me.”

“I've had a really bad day,” Law growls. Sanji looks at his face, streetlight coming through the window to illuminate just one side, one cruel eye and a smirking mouth that shocks Sanji, as Zoro's own grinning face flashes in front of him.

Sanji leans forward, puts his mouth to Law's ear, murmurs, “I'm in trouble, aren't I?” Law's response is to roughly turn Sanji so that his cheek hits the wall, pressing the length of his long body to Sanji's own. He kicks Sanji's feet and spreads his legs wider, and whispers back.

“You have _no_ idea...”

 

 

Sanji lights a cigarette and offers it to Law, who shakes his head. Sanji is studying Law's face - downturned mouth, furrowed brow, tired, almost pallid complexion - when Law stands suddenly. The move is precise, purposeful, and Sanji gets a slight chill down his spine looking at the tall man's lean tattooed back in the half-light, even as a pang of _want, need, lust_ washes over him. “I think...” Law says softly, and clears his throat. “I don't think I can stay tonight.”

“Graveyard shift?” Sanji says, just to say something. He knows Law doesn't work the late night shifts on the weekends, and he knows that ' _I think_ ' means something personal.

Law shakes his head. He looks directly at Sanji, and Sanji fights back the urge to gulp. “Something happened today that I don't think I can forgive myself for,” he says bluntly. His eyes are dark and his mouth is a hard line, and the way his shoulders are tensed tells Sanji not to reach out like he wants to. Instead he waits, to see if Law will say more, or go.

Then he thinks that maybe Law doesn't want to make that decision himself. Does he want Sanji to ask him to stay? Touch him? Listen? Suddenly everything feels uncertain. It fills the air conditioned motel room like a heavy blanket, and Sanji wonders if Law can feel it, too.

“This little girl...” Law starts, and stops. The backs of his knees hit the mattress edge and he sits. “Her parents bought her in a week ago. They'd been at lunch in the city when she suddenly fallen from her seat and seized; the mother was hysterical, describing the way she'd shaken around. Midway through the examination she woke up and I asked her her name, though her parents had already told me it was Lila.” Law bends his head and closes his eyes, and Sanji resists again the urge to reach out and touch him. “But she couldn't remember.”

“Oh, I'm...” Sanji falters. “I'm sorry.”

Law carries on without indicating he'd heard Sanji's heartfelt yet utterly useless apology. “We thought it would be a neurosurgical case at first, that I might have to pass it onto Dr. Finkman, but she improved quickly. She had one small seizure, a petit mal, and then they stopped. The swelling in her brain started to subside. When prompted she would answer simple personal questions, and her mother would help her along with the more difficult ones. I thought... it was temporary memory loss due to her massive seizure. I thought it had passed. I relaxed.”

Law sighs, “I shouldn't have done that. She died today at noon. Cerebral hemorage. She was only six years old.”

Finally he looks at Sanji, and though dry eyed he looks broken inside, as though something awful has nested in his chest and refuses to climb out. Sanji wants to reach in and take it away.

“I've lost patients before,” Law says. “It's part of being a surgeon. We know that each time we send someone under there's a chance they wont make it back again.”

Sanjii isn't sure what to say, or if he's supposed to say anything at all. Law looks at him a second more before turning his gaze back to the carpet by his feet. “Anyway,” he says, “I thought I should explain the sudden change in my behaviour. I wasn't being fair to you.”

“I was surprised,” Sanji says.

“I didn't hurt you?” Law says quietly.

“Yes,” Sanji admits, and stares as the corner of Law's mouth turns up.

“Did you like it?” he says, still quiet, though his voice is rougher, grown deeper with something... Sanji's mouth is dry, and he swallows, leaning slightly forwards on the mattress, now an arm's length from Law. He could reach out and touch his back with his fingertips, if he tried. He wonders what Law would do; would he turn to Sanji, or turn away, or simply do nothing at all?

“I did,” Sanji says, still staring. “I like your softer side, too, but it makes me feel...”

“Like I'm too careful with you,” Law says, so directly, so accurate that Sanji flinches and leans back again. “Like I'm afraid I might break you if I hold you too tight.”

He looks at Sanji and finally turns his whole body to face him, moving on his knees up the mattress to Sanji, until Sanji thighs are squeezed between them, and Law leans close and says, “You were right,” he says. “I did feel that way.” At Sanji's sharp intake of breath he smiles ever so slightly, and Sanji turns accusatory eyes on him, mind aflame with rage and betrayal, but even as he curses Law he understands how powerless he is to remove Law from his lap, how Law could hurt him without worrying that Sanji might hurt him back, and it angers him all the more.

“Don't get me wrong,” Law says. “I don't pity you. I know that whatever happens to you, or me, or anyone, is down to choice. Even those guys coming after you – you chose to refuse my help... but you also chose to run and survive. It's more about my own fears. If I let myself take my frustrations out on you every time I see you, there's no really telling what damage I could do.

“But I hold back... because every time I see you you look a little thinner, a little paler. Though...” he brushes his fingers over Sanji's thigh, “something's changed... You almost look well; colour in your face, strength in your limbs... what happened?”

Law sits back on Sanji's legs and Sanji shifts a little to get comfortable. “They came for me again,” he starts. Law simply listens, face betraying nothing. “But I had help getting away, he -”

“He?”

“Yes. His name is Zoro. He's... a friend.”

“Just a friend.”

Sanji narrows his eyes. “He helped me escape Tatsuya's men and let me stay the night at his place. I might be stayed there a little longer, until I deal with this crap.”

“And he's the reason you look oddly healthy.”

“He buys the ingredients; I cook them,” Sanji says. “I'm a good cook,” he adds, suddenly feeling defensive. _I don't like how this feels. Having to explain myself when all that's happened to me is a little change of address and a few good meals._

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” Law says shortly. He climbs off of Sanji and stands, moving towards his clothes, all scattered near the door. As he pulls on his pants and shirt Sanji can only watch, feeling shellshocked.

“I-I'm sorry,” he manages, not knowing why he's apologising, before Law scoops up his coat and slams the door behind him, so hard that it bounces back again. Something metal pings against the wall across the room.

Sitting on the bed alone, Sanji listens to Law's footsteps recede down the balcony and clatter down the metal steps to the carpark. Next comes the open and close of a car door, and the sputtering of an old engine. Through all of it Sanji sits and stares at the rain-flecked window, at the neon pink, blue and green kaleidoscope of light mixing in with the water, and as it starts to rain again, wind blowing the water in through the open door, Sanji stands and gathers up his clothes, and fights back the urge to cry.

 

 

It's well past 2am when Sanji gets back to Zoro's. The busses don't run past midnight, and without his bike the five mile walk had taken over an hour. He'd dodged the rain as much as possible, running from overhanging tree to phone box to shop awning, but shelter became harder to find in the residential areas, and he'd arrived almost soaked through.

Sanji presses his forehead to the wall beside the door and slides down, crouching there for a moment before turning and sitting with a dull thump on the floorboards, stretching his legs out to touch the wall opposite, letting his arms fall to his sides. His eyes start to prickle, and a lump rises in his throat. “ _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ ,” he mutters, knowing that though he'd held his tears back all the way home, they won't stay inside for long.

 

 

Zoro hears the front door open at 2.45am. One hand instinctively goes for Shusui's hilt and he stands, but there's nothing there next to him. Grabbing stupidly at the tv remote, he realises he'd been asleep.

He yawns, and rubs his eyes. Already that instictual panic is dying down. _Tatsuya's guys wouldn't come in quietly like that, he reasons. After last time they'll charge in guns blazing – damn alerting the neighbourhood, damn the cops, damn all of us_.

Zoro pads in feet softened by woollen work socks to the kitchen, and turns into the hallway, freezing in the doorway.

His second instict had been right – it was Sanji, arriving late. But his guest is sitting against the wall, and his head is in his hands, and his shoulders are shaking...

 _Ah fuck,_ Zoro panics _, he's crying. What the hell. I can't let him see me watching him! Oh, shit -_

Sanji hiccups, and Zoro flinches and freezes like a rabbit caught in a pair of headlights. He tries to imagine what he'll say if Sanji happens to look up and see him standing there staring like some voyeur freak, and comes up with nothing. His flight instict is beating inside him like a drum, and with some effort he takes one quiet step backwards, into the kitchen. _Just... one more... and I can slide sideways out of sight..._

He takes the second step, keeping his eyes on Sanji. He notes Sanji's soaking wet hair, his cold red hands, the ways his chest heaves with each sucking in of breath, and through his fear he senses pity and the odd, terrifying want to stop moving away and approach the guy, though he wouldn't know what to say. Maybe letting Sanji beat the shit out of him again would make both of them feel better.

Zoro steps into the kitchen and moves quickly out of sight. His heart thumps against his ribs like a caged animal in a frenzy, and his knees feel slightly weak. He breathes deep. He tells himself he'd done the right thing. And then he thinks, _Liar_.

 

 

The first thing Zoro says to Sanji when he walks into the lounge is, “You look like you've been in a fight.”

Sanji feels Zoro's gaze boring into him as he walks toward the bathroom. “Yeah, feels like it,” he says. He closes the door and leans against it, closing his eyes. “Please,” he whispers, “please let tomorrow be better...”


	3. Chapter 3

When Sanji steps out the next morning he sees a city washed clean of mud and snow, a bright mid-winter sun rising, and a hazy blue sky. Somewhere over the rooftops birds are crying, and he fills his lungs with cold air, breathing through his nose and out through his mouth, looking up the street to beautiful brush-stroke clouds streaked with the pink of the sunrise.

In the apartment behind him Zoro is still sleeping, and Sanji has left breakfast in the oven. Zoro will smell the egg, bacon, and herb potatoes when he wakes. Sanji hopes that he doesn't mind that he's taken it upon himself to do the grocery shopping today; he's left a note on the fridge, saying “ _took 5,000 from the jar. back before 10._ ” He's left his phone behind, too, sitting on the bedside table, battery dead, texts (from Law) piling up (he hopes).

Despite the clear weather and peaceful, still-waking city Sanji feels restless. After last night's meltdown he'd gone straight to bed, but he lay awake until 3am, wearing down his phone battery with repeated attempts to switch it on and see “1 new message” sitting there waiting for him, finally sleeping when it turned off for good. Too tired and hurt to get up and fetch the charger, he'd slept, but after only a few hours had woken again. Sanji had listened to Zoro snoring through the thin walls and wondered how he was going to get by without any of his belongings – whether Zoro would go with him to his house to get his things – and if Law would call or, in fact, ever talk to him again.

 _There's been a lot happening lately. And sometimes_ , he'd thought, staring up at the ceiling, _things just get to be too much_.

The kidnapping, the heavy steps of the men in his house, Zoro's betrayal, Law slamming the door and driving away, the rain and the cold and _Tatsuya_ , all of it... it’s almost ruined his life – taken his home, his freedom, his dignity – and he’s fed up, so against his better judgement and Zoro’s warnings to be careful, he’s getting out the house for a little while. He’s fairly certain that Tatsuya’s thugs won’t be out looking for him at dawn on a chilly winter morning, in a city district several miles from his own.

With a soft pitter-patter and a fleeting “meow” that follows it into next door's garden, a black cat with white slippered feet runs over the mossy stone wall, and Sanji shakes his head, and steps out of the driveway, onto the concrete sidewalk.

He heads into the city centre, wishing after a few blocks that he'd bought his phone just to have something to do with his hands. He sees only a few people, but despite his self-reassurances earlier, with each passer-by he feels his chest tighten and can't help but scan their pockets for suspicious bumps, looking over his shoulder as they go, half expecting any one of them to be the beginning of an ambush, for Tatsuya himself to jump out of an alley with a knife. _It's ridiculous_ , he thinks, _that even though I resent Zoro for following me around the way he does, I still can't go out in public without wishing he were around to reassure me_. He looks behind him once more, finding only an empty street. _I need to get stronger. I need that more than anything_.

The market's early morning traffic consists mostly of those who keep odd hours; truckers, addicts, hospital employees and parents with small children, all mingling together in sleepy aloneness, everyone preoccupied with their own thoughts and trolleys. Sanji makes his way down aisle after fluorescently-lit aisle. He reaches for bread still warm from the bakery oven, eggs, cheese, fresh fruit and vegetables, pasta and, in an early-morning fit of thoughtfulness, beer for Zoro, and piles it all up in his little (and now very full) handheld basket.

The checkout operator is a woman in her thirties. Her tag says “My name is ANNE”, and she smells strongly of antibacterial soap and cigarette smoke.

Sanji carries his food in two plastic shopping bags, one in each hand, back up the main street. He trudges down the pavement, hands tingling as the plastic shopping bag handles dig into the soft skin of his fingers and palms, and turns his shoulders to every person he passes, aiming nervous glances that are probably more suspicious than the people he's aiming them at.

The shopping district eventually peters off into many narrower, cobbled-stone streets, a maze-delta of alleyways and footpaths, roads without sidewalks hedged in by rows of attached apartments. When he looks up Sanji sees laundry flapping in the breeze, wooden planter boxes leaking dirt-speckled water onto windowsills, and a clear blue sky overhead. He tries to focus on this rather than the idea of a horde of gangsters swarming the city looking for him, but both of these thoughts fly from his mind when he hears a plaintive and somehow familiar “meow”. When he looks down again he sees a cat.

It's the white-footed one from before.

“Did you follow me?” he asks. The cat stares, tail whipping lazily back and forth. “I guess you did, huh. Weird cat.”

Then it stands and, cutting directly between Sanji's legs, darts into the dim alley to his right. He stumbles, and yells, but when he peers into the alley the cat is gone.

And that's when he sees the bike.

“Holy shit,” Sanji breathes. He sets the grocery bags on the damp sidewalk and walks slowly towards it, still squinting through the gloom but feeling quite sure that this is the bike he'd left behind, and when he reaches forward and touches it, sets it upright, wheels it into the empty, cobbled side street, he knows for sure – this is _his_ bike. He checks the basket, knowing that it's pushing his luck to hope that his keys, wallet and cigarettes might still be inside, and simply nods when he finds it empty.

Silently, almost reverently, Sanji fills the basket with the shopping bags – squashing the bread maybe just a _little_ bit to make it fit but God, what does it matter – puts his feet to the pedals and pushes off. At once he feels a stiffness to the bike's joints, a little stutter in the gears, but these things are fixable, and the thing works just fine despite it.

Too elated even to question how this came to be, how the bike ended up in an alley an entire city district from where he'd left it, and how a damn _cat_ was the one to show him the way, Sanji smiles into the wind, watching as the now wakeful city, painted by the dawn's cold hazy light, unfolds at speed before him.

_“Please, let tomorrow be better.” That's what you wished for, right? Well here it is, you lucky bastard! Here it is!_

 

 

 

A week has passed since Sanji's breakdown in the hallway, and with a combination of his own cooking, seven hours minimum of restful sleep per night and a mind more or less free of problems like unlocked front doors and gun-toting gangsters, Sanji's weight has started to climb towards a healthier level, to a point where even Zoro comments. Sanji emerges from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist and opens the door to the hallway. Zoro passes as Sanji reaches for the handle on the door to his room. He gives Sanji a cursory look and nods. “You look better.”

Sanji pokes his side and supposes that yes, his ribs are less visible.

Sanji even manages to persuade Zoro to let him use the home gym in the third bedroom – the treadmill is his favourite, though the punching bag comes a close second. As he puts on the gloves one afternoon and steps up to the heavy, obviously well-used bag, Sanji feels a moment of gratitude for Zoro. He frowns, not quite used to thinking of him in a friendly light, though another part of him, the simple, non-judgemental part unclouded by their rivalry, fixates on that feeling and puts a reason to it – without Zoro, Sanji couldn't become stronger, and without becoming stronger, Sanji couldn't beat Tatsuya into a bloody pulp. _I would be dead if it weren't for him. Even if he hadn't pinned his own crime on me, I'd still be living in that shitty house with no food and no heating. Although_ , he thinks sourly, _Law wouldn't have been pissed off with me that night and I wouldn't be checking my phone for a call every five seconds._

He deals the first blow to the bag, sending it spinning, and as it returns to him hits it with a heavy kick.

As he concentrates on doing as much damage as possible, feeling sweat start to prickle between his shoulderblades and on the back of his neck, Sanji pictures Tatsuya's angular face, his lazy black gaze and pointed nose, and his slender yet lethal hands and shiny, steel capped shoes. Sanji hits harder and harder until his hands and feet are blurs in front of him, and aches have started to form all over his body, and the deep black rage in his head throbs like a heartbeat, red lightning crashing through it and through him, coursing down his spine and crackling in his palms.

Suddenly: “Oi.”

Sanji stops punching.

He turns around to see Zoro, dressed in a plain black tank top, dark blue shorts and black running shoes. He's carrying a folded white towel and a stopwatch. “Yeah?” Sanji says, breathing hard.

Zoro looks at him. “Nothing.” He put the towel on the chair by the door, steps onto the treadmill and sets the watch, then switches on the big machine. Zoro starts running; Sanji stares.

After a moment Zoro feels Sanji's eyes on him and turns his head a fraction, looking at Sanji out of the corner of his eye. “Get punching,” he says. “You're never going to beat that Euro bastard if you don't train.”

“Shut up,” Sanji mutters, doing, despite the irritation boiling in his throat, exactly as he's told.

 

 

 

That same night, Sanji plugs in and turns on his phone, smiling softly as it starts to vibrate, notifications coming in one after the other, until they finally stop and the words “4 missed calls” and “10 new messages” stare out at him from the screen. For a whole week he's heard nothing from Law, and all his own messages have gone unanswered. “Finally ready to apologise, huh?” he murmurs, still smiling.

All of the calls are from Law, except the last, the number on which he doesn't recognise. He scrolls down, looking at the timestamps. 4.45am. 5.04. 5.17. 6.21. Sanji frowns, and goes to his messages.

4.40am: “ _Been busy all week. Decided we need to talk tomorrow; shouldn't have left it like I did. 7.30, usual place?_ ”

_“If you're sleeping, wake up.”_

_“I'll bring cigarettes.”_

_“Oi.”_

_“I'm sorry. Please reply.”_

5.30am. Sanji clicks it open and his stomach sinks. “ _Some guys were just here, described someone who looks like you. Photo they showed me was blurry, could have been you, too. One of them definitely had a gun.”_

_“They're gone.”_

_“Are they the ones you told me about?”_

_“We need to talk about this come daylight. I'm sorry I told you to wake up. Please get some rest.”_

_“I think they're outside again.”_

Hands shaking, Sanji opens the last text.

_“Q #j?”_

Something like a groan rises in Sanji's throat, and he claps one hand over it, fighting it until it slides back down. With his free hand he navigates back to his missed calls, and scrolls down until he hits the most recent. 6.21am. The unknown number. He dials it, and puts the phone to his ear, and waits.

A woman's voice, sweet yet business-like, clearly recorded by her rehearsed, unnatural tones: “ _You've reached Central City Hospital reception. If you would like to inquire after a patient, please press 1. To book with one of our physicians or with a specialist, please press 2. For visitors' hours, please press 3. If none of these apply, please press 4. To hear this message again, please press the hash key._ ” There's a ten second pause, and the recording starts over. Sanji's eyes are shut tight, and his hand is still pressed to his mouth.

“Oh, god,” he whispers.

When he looks up, Zoro is standing at the door. The man's brown face can be so hard to read when he stares so seriously; Sanji can't tell if he's concerned or just interested. He fights back the urge to snap at Zoro, and says, “What's up?” His voice comes out almost pathetically strained.

“Is something wrong?” Zoro says, stepping forward hesitantly.

“No,” Sanji says, even as his mind screams “ _Yes! Help me!_ ” Zoro's mouth twitches. A tiny movement in the left corner, as if someone has slid an invisible fish hook through his skin and is tugging at the line. _He can tell I'm lying._

“You were muttering to yourself.”

“I was not!” Sanji yells, standing up indignantly.

“You were.”

“It's none of your business!”

Zoro's shoulders tense as he clenches his fists at his sides. “This is my house! Everything that goes on here is my business!”

Now a tiny muscle in Zoro's temple is twitching too. Sanji stares at it, then past him, to the open door. He wants to run past Zoro, through that door and onto the street, and take off towards the hospital. It would only take thirty minutes to reach at a swift walking pace. But Zoro's presence is menacing, huge. Sanji wouldn't be fast enough. Zoro could stick out an arm (those muscles bulging beneath the skin, veins running along the stiffened limb like steel chords) and send Sanji crashing to the floor, or simply step to the side and block him with his chest. Sanji fumes. _Damn you, you stupid green-haired protein-freak bastard, I have to_ go!

Sanji looks back at Zoro, fixing him with the hardest stare he can muster. “Drive me to the hospital,” he commands.

Zoro visibly blanches at his request. One of his arms rises slightly, as if in defence. He says warily,“Why?”

“One of my friends has been hurt. I have to go and see them.”

“I didn't know you had friends,” Zoro mutters.

“Not many,” Sanji says shortly, still staring at Zoro, “but the ones I do have are very important to me. And honestly, I think you still owe me for that pity-party bullshit, so are you going to drive me or not?”

Zoro mumbles something that sounds like “ _I'll show you a pity party,_ ” but still says, with much sighing and huffing, “Fine,” and grabs the keys from the hook by the door while Sanji hurries through the house, finding his coat on the couch and pulling on his socks and shoes at the front step.

As they head towards the standalone double carport which Zoro shares with his neighbour, Zoro points at Sanji, keys jangling from his hand. “If one of Tatsuya's guys sees us, that'll be the end of it for you _and_ me. They know who I am, and they know where I live. You shouldn't have gone out this morning, - “Zoro pauses as they open the doors and slide into the green Toyota - “and you should let me do all the grocery shopping from now on.” Sanji opens his mouth to say something, and Zoro says loudly, “And I'm not coming in with you. I'll wait in the car. If you come running out of the hospital with some thug on your heels... I'm driving away.”

Sanji stares at Zoro for a moment, then thumps him hard in the arm with one closed fist.

“Idiot,” he says. “I'm going to run right towards you and get in the car before you've even moved.”

The look on Zoro's face is so comical that Sanji has to stifle a laugh – though Zoro follows this look up with a glare which, if he's honest, doesn't make the hairs on the back of Sanji's neck stand up at all anymore.

Zoro starts up the car, taking off the brake with much more force than needed, and Sanji silently praises himself for pissing Zoro off before they’ve even left the driveway – when he's angry, he drives faster.

The atmosphere in the car (which doesn't seem to have working aircon) quickly grows oppressive and Sanji cranks open his rain-spattered window and watches the city lights go by, ignoring Zoro as frigid air blows over his face.

When they reach the hospital, Sanji steps out of the car before Zoro has pulled to a complete stop. He closes the door and says through the open window, “Wait for me, okay?” If Zoro answers him he doesn't hear it; he's already on his way across the shining wet asphalt car park to the big glass doors at the main building's entrance. He passes between two big potted trees, bright green and pointed at the tops, and leaves the damp outside air for the hospital's busy, scrubbed-clean foyer, heading straight for the front desk.

“I'm looking for a patient,” he says.

The woman behind the desk is young, plump, and dark haired, with shiny black rimmed glasses and a mole on her left cheek. “Sure,” she says. “What's the name?”

“Law,” Sanji replies.

She raises her eyebrows, taps her keys and nods. “He’s in 1487. That’s a private room.” She turns to her left and points down a long, stark white corridor. “Take the elevator down there to the fifth floor, and follow the signs to the 80s. Not the decade, I mean – the grouping of rooms ending in eighty-something.”

Sanji nods, nonplussed. “Right.”

She smiles, absently poking the eraser end of her pencil into one plump, white cheek. “Visiting hours end in thirty minutes. If you're lucky by the time someone gets to your room to announce their ending, you'll have snatched a few extra minutes.” She points to her tag. “My name's Jane, by the way. I get off work at midnight.”

Sanji is already heading for the corridor. “I, uh, have pottery class at 11.30,” he throws over his shoulder.

Jane's amused “Shame, the cute ones always do...” follows him to the elevator.

 

 

 

Despite his frantic foot-tapping in the elevator, Sanji walks down the hallway with cautious, measured footsteps. He counts the numbered plaques on the walls (1483, 1484, 1485, 1486...) and when he finally reaches the door to 1487, peering around the doorframe into the brightly lit, sparsely furnished room, he immediately fixes on the prone figure in the bed by the window. Law is lying, very still, on his back, but he's not asleep; he turns his head as soon as Sanji appears at the door, and Sanji gasps, his back straightening, his arms falling to his sides.

Law's right eye is covered with a white patch taped to his skin, and his lip is split, but most worrying at first glance are the bandages wrapped across the top of his head.

But then Sanji sees the rest of him and thinks he might be about to cry again. A lump rises in his throat. He mouths “Oh...” and stares.

The latticework of bruises on Law's body easily rival the ones Sanji received from Tatsuya during their first meeting – they're a cruel dark purple, some ringed with yellow, some coloured further with blood-red spots. If there are any below his diaphragm (Sanji guesses that there are) they've been covered by the bandages wrapped around his ribs.

Sanji moves closer. “Oh, god...” he breathes. “I'm so sorry.” His thighs bump the edge of the bed and he reaches out a tentative hand, not wanting to touch, just wanting to do something, and it's a relief when Law catches his wrist and holds it.

“It's fine,” Law says. “I was stupid not to expect something like this.”

Sanji gapes. “ _You_ were stupid? You can't blame yourself for this… you can’t!” _Blame me,_ he thinks frantically, _put all the blame on me! I'll carry the weight of it; that's the least I can do for you._

“You're shouting, Sanji,” Law deadpans. Sanji looks around, half-expecting a lynch mob, but the corridor remains quiet.

“Sorry,” Sanji mumbles. “But you're being an idiot.” He mentally berates himself for how childish those words sound, though he stands by them nonetheless.

“I didn't tell them anything,” Law says suddenly. He's staring at Sanji with a terrible expression – guilt and pain and desperation all mixed into one, and even as a cold fist grabs Sanji's heart and squeezes, he thinks rather selfishly that he never, ever wants to see that look on Law's face again.

“I promise,” Law whispers. “I didn't tell.” Sanji, with his chest aching, sits on the side of the bed and leans closer to Law, saying back _I know, I know, I know_ as he carefully kisses Law's head, the corner of his eye, the tip of his nose, his trembling mouth. He brushes a thumb along his jaw and touches his forehead to Law's, really barely touching him at all, so aware that Law's body has become fragile, broken, and all because of him. All he wants to do is curl up beside him and hold him, but he can't, so he doesn't move, and tells him he knows. Law's hold on his wrist is vice-like. It says _don't go_.

There's a knock on the door, and Sanji half turns, thinking that it's much too early for visiting hours to be over yet, but it's not a nurse standing in the doorway – it's Zoro.

He clears his throat and says, “We have to go.”

“Fuck off,” Sanji growls.

“I mean it,” Zoro says. “We have to go _now_ , Sanji.”

Sanji really turns and stares when Zoro uses his given name. It's the first time he's said it since they’d first met – in fact Sanji's been wondering if Zoro doesn't truly think his name is “Oi” or “Bastard” or just “You.”

“They're here,” Zoro says, peering back around the doorframe, into the hallway.

Sanji stares for a moment, but then Law releases his wrist and pushes him forward and says “Go,” and Sanji's stomach drops.

He looks back at Law, mouth suddenly dry. “What? No, I – “

“I'm not going anywhere like this,” Law says, his tone brooking no argument.

Zoro takes a step forward. “He's right,” he says. “He'll slow us down.”

“You bastard!” Sanji yells, launching himself off the bed towards Zoro, coming to a stop inches from his face. Somewhere inside he knows they're both right, but he's angry, and none of this is fair, so he jabs a finger into Zoro's chest and says, in a low voice, “How about I break both your legs and leave you in the hallway, hm? You can be the bait while I make my escape, and maybe if I'm lucky, if I position you in just the right place, one or two of those bastards'll trip over you.” Sanji watches the vein ticking on the side of Zoro's head and waits for him to shove back with an insult, a threat, but Zoro only stares.

Grinning like an orca whale getting ready to rip apart a baby seal, Zoro raises a hand and thumps Sanji in the head. One moment Sanji is standing and the next he's on the cold hospital floor, consciousness fading like a river rushing over a waterfall. In the last hazy, wakeful piece of his mind Sanji hears Zoro softly say, “Don't worry. I'll take care of him.” And then he's gone; it's all gone.

 

 

 

When Sanji wakes up it's dark – very, very dark.

He groans as he sits up, squinting uselessly into the mass of blackness all around him, and his heart jumps into his throat when a warm hand claps down on his mouth. Kicking out his legs and grabbing his assailant's wrist Sanji struggles, shouting words that sound like nonsense through the man's hand, and he's almost wormed his way free when he feels warm breath brush over his ear and he hears Zoro say, “Shut up.”

But all Sanji can think about is how Law definitely isn't with them, and he keeps struggling, scratching at Zoro's hand as the other man hisses in his ear until finally he's pulled firmly backwards over the smooth cold floor and straightjacketed by two strong arms. Zoro’s back slams into a wall and Sanji slams into Zoro, and the force of his back colliding with Zoro's chest briefly punches the air from his lungs. He sits gasping, legs tensed and stretched out in front of him, pausing only to get his breath back so he can attempt to escape again.

“We had to,” Zoro hisses. “You know we did.”

“Get... off me!” Sanji dredges up the last of his strength and gives it one final push, ignoring the ache in his lungs as he arches his back, shoves his shoulder into Zoro's throat and tries to slip free. But even as Zoro coughs, choking slightly from Sanji’s blow, his hold only grows tighter, and every breath that Sanji draws is shorter than the last. Lightheaded and wheezing, Sanji collapses back against Zoro's chest. His weakened legs shudder and fall to the cold floor and Zoro’s hold relaxes, if only to let Sanji breathe.

Still wheezing, Sanji says, “Just let me go.”

“I can’t do that,” Zoro says. “They’re still out there looking for you.”

“Then let’s both go out there! You have your sword, right? Just do that horror movie slasher thing you did back at the hotel.”

Zoro huffs, somewhat guiltily, “I don’t have my sword.”

“You what?!”

“I left it in the car.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I was in a hurry!”

He falls silent – Sanji feels that he’s embarrassed, and decides not to push it. He remembers the conversation they’d had in the car earlier. _He said that at the first sign of trouble he’d drive away, so either he can’t help but put himself in risky situations or… he really cares about what happens to me._

Sanji whispers, “So what happened, exactly?”

“I knocked you out,” Zoro says. Sanji doesn't need to see the smirk on his face to know it's there.

“Before that,” he says, tone scathing.

“I recognised their car as soon as it pulled into the carpark – big black custom wheels. I rushed ahead of them, told the woman at the front desk to hide – “

“Jane,” Sanji says. “Her name’s Jane.”

“Right… so I thought that if they wanted to find you, they'll have to figure out the computer system themselves. I think it gave us some time, but not much. I went up the stairs, which is when I realised I’d left Shusu – I mean, my sword, in the car, and I ran through the hallways until I found you.”

“Shusu?”

Zoro mutters, “Shusui. It’s my sword’s name.”

“Oh… okay.”

Zoro softly clears his throat, once, twice, and finally says, “I’m sorry I made you stay here, I just didn't want to start fighting those guys and turn around to see you've run off to your... er...”

“Friend...” Sanji prompts.

“Right, off to your friend, and find you again in six pieces in the bottom of Tatsuya's freezer.”

Zoro pauses. “He’s not just your friend though, is he?”

“No.” Sanji tenses, waiting for whatever’s coming.

But Zoro only shrugs, and says, with a hint of a smile in his voice, “I don't think you were completely straight with me when I asked you what you do for a living.” He realises his poor choice of words when Sanji sniggers. “I mean... I don't... by straight I mean – “

“It's fine,” Sanji says. “I don't think you were either.”

Zoro stays quiet, which is answer enough.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter this time - I have 4-5k words of the next chapter on the go, but I still need to write the middle bit so I figured I'd post the first couple scenes just to post /something/!

Sanji raises a lit cigarette to his mouth and inhales; takes aim and blows the smoke towards the horizon, burning with a golden-orange early morning light. A chill winter breeze blows the smoke away at once, turning it quickly from a cloud into misty tendrils into nothing at all.

Sanji, sitting in a wooden outdoor chair padded with a stuffed cushion, taps ash into the tray on the chair arm and looks, frowning, at Zoro.

He says, “I’m not buying a gun.” He hopes Zoro will let him leave it at that, but there’s a persistent look in the man’s eyes and the way he leans, arms crossed, on the wrought iron fence running around his uncle’s balcony tells Sanji that he has an idea in his head and he’s not letting go simply at Sanji’s say-so.

“Maybe not a gun,” Zoro shrugs, “just… something.”

“Like what – a bloody great big sword?”

Zoro glares. “It might be smart for you to get yourself some kind of weapon.”

“Maybe,” Sanji says. “But how am I gonna pay for something like that? It’s not like I can cook my debt away. I haven’t been able to work as usual, either, with all that’s been going on.” _And I’ve lost a lot of potential income because_ _of it,_ he thinks angrily. Over the last week he’d received several messages from customers asking to set up meetings, and to each had replied with the same thing: “ _sorry, I’ve left the city, not sure when I’ll be back. text again in a week or so.”_

He’d received only one reply to this message. Gin had sent him the sad face emoji and the words “everything O.K.?” which Sanji had stared at with a lump in his throat for a minute before answering with a thumbs up emoji and an assurance that yes, he was doing just fine. Gin had been one of his first regulars – a skinny, dark-eyed French-Arab man who, Sanji suspected, had a background with some rough people, but who always tipped high and who once, to Sanji’s surprise, had left their hotel room after ordering Sanji to stay and wait and had returned twenty minutes later with four cartons of Chinese food.

Zoro is nodding, his gaze fixed, though unfocussed, on the ashtray at Sanji’s elbow.

Finally he looks up and grins. “I think I know where we can go, and how we can pay.”

And just like that, Sanji’s agreed, somehow without strictly agreeing. Later that afternoon he enters the kitchen to the pathetic roaring of a boiling kettle in its last throes, finding Zoro at the bench pouring scalding hot water into a massive blue mug. Within moments the room becomes infused with the aroma of cinnamon and ginger; the smell of chai tea.

“I’ve set up a meeting with my contact. We’ll leave at dusk,” Zoro says.

Sanji raises one eyebrow. “Your contact?” he says, sarcasm edging into his voice. At once he imagines a balding man in a dirty white vest top, a chronic smoker with nicotine stained fingers and a dark back room piled high with illicit weapons. _There’ll be a cash exchange and a quick parting of ways._ _Just business_ , he thinks – and then, feeling a small surge of anger: _Probably someone that damn swordsman met through his connections with Tatsuya._

Clearly annoyed at Sanji’s tone, Zoro grimaces and leans against the stove, the steaming mug of tea cupped between his hands. “We’ll have to leave the city to meet him,” he says. “It’s a 90 minute drive.”

“But an hour and a half would take us to…”

Zoro nods. “Tokyo.”

 

 

 

 

 

Sanji looks sideways at Zoro. “You do know the way, right?”

“For the last time, you damn dartboard: shut the _hell_ up,” Zoro growls. It’s gotta be the sixth time at _least_ that Sanji has asked him this since they pulled out of the driveway. Sanji’s enjoying the steady reddening of Zoro’s ears, the angry tick in his temple, the tensing in his jaw. Never mind that Zoro is driving – Sanji’s having fun.

“Or what…” Sanji mutters.

“Or I’ll eject you from the goddamn car.”

“You’ll need me to get us on track once you get us lost –”

“I said shut it!”

“Make me!”

Not one to back down from a challenge, Zoro does his best; taking one hand from the wheel he leans across Sanji and, without looking, grabs the handle and releases the catch on the passenger door. He ignores Sanji’s protests and grabs his elbow, roughly shoving him towards the open door. The side of Sanji’s head smacks the window as his side collides with the edge of the armrest, eliciting an unbidden gasp of pain from between his lips. The wind has yet to catch, though it won’t be far off – the door shudders as chilly drafts of air batter at the frame, creeping into the car to swirl around Sanji’s feet. Zoro pushes harder and the door gives. It swings open as they crest the hill and merge with the traffic on the freeway. Zoro is impossibly fast; all of this happens within seconds, and suddenly Sanji can see the hard tarmac rushing by beneath him, white lines passing in ordered frenzy for those few moments that Zoro leaves him hanging there, his only thought that he’d neglected to buckle his seatbelt and that Zoro is the only anchor between him and the moving car. Then the vice grip on his arm tightens further, almost unbearably, and Sanji finds himself once again upright. Blinking wind-tears from his eyes he slams the door, staring ahead at the mass of oblivious traffic for all of two seconds before he turns on Zoro.

Zoro shouts out – no words in particular, more of a general yell – as Sanji lunges across to him and claps a hand over his eye. Zoro grabs Sanji’s wrist at once, tearing his hand away. He fixes him with his ineffectual golden Cyclops glare before turning his attention back to the road.

Maybe Zoro had planned on verbally ripping Sanji a new one, maybe not; either way he never gets a chance to tell him off because the tears in Sanji’s eyes have turned from wind-tears to tears of mirth. Still holding the door handle, still feeling the outside air’s chilly fingers on his head, quite sure that his hair is a windswept mess and quite _unsure_ that Zoro’s plan had always been to pull him back in, Sanji bursts into laughter. The car becomes full of it. It drowns out the tinny noise of the radio and the concerned and slightly agitated beeps still coming from behind them.

And when Sanji stops, gasping, his eyes streaming and his cheeks scarlet, he looks over at Zoro and sees that Zoro is laughing too, and that sets him off again.

Afterwards, struggling for a decent breath of air and feeling an unfamiliar ache in the back of his throat, Sanji leans back and angles his head at Zoro. Grinning, he says, “You’re a madman.”

“I would have done it, you know,” Zoro says – the words are menacing but his tone is not, and he’s smirking slightly as he checks the rear-view mirror and settles both hands on the wheel.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you laugh properly,” Sanji says suddenly, the words getting past him before he’s checked them at the door. Fervently wishing that he could send them back inside, Sanji averts his gaze from the swordsman and waits.

Zoro shifts uncomfortably in his seat, saying nothing.

Moving as though desperate, Zoro turns up the volume on the radio; it broadcasts static, disembodied voices intermittently interrupting the wash of white noise. Around the car the city is falling away, office buildings inching from view behind them as to the west the sun sets over a landscape of empty industrial lots, huge open spaces of concrete peppered with large machinery and shipping containers standing still and waiting for the dawn of the next working day. Sanji watches all of it go by without seeing it – instead he’s hearing Zoro’s dorky laugh, seeing his eye tightly closed (dangerous, as he’s driving, but he’d kept the car on track, so no harm done), his head bent forward, a grin spreading over his face like a burst of autumn sunlight after a heavy rain. _Damnit,_ Sanji thinks. _Damnit, damnit, damnit!_

Silence has clapped down on the car like a heavy lid, and the more and more Sanji tries to think of something to say, something to lift it away, the less and less the words will come to him. Beside him Zoro clears his throat and Sanji jumps, as if reacting to a gunshot.

“I’m not sorry, you know,” Zoro says quietly, not looking at Sanji.

The knowledge of what the man means immediately alights in Sanji’s head; without context or precedent, Sanji knows without a doubt what Zoro is referring to, and though that familiar anger flares up inside him he clamps it down and simply says, “Oh?” He stares straight ahead, willing his hands not to clench into fists.

He feels rather than sees Zoro glance at him. Sanji’s own not-so-distant voice speaks within his memory: _Eye on the road._ Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches up, but only for a second.

“No,” Zoro says, strongly now. “I know it’s caused you a world of trouble – and for that I guess I do feel some guilt – but for me… it worked out in my favour.”

Angry words whip-crack through Sanji’s head –

_“Trouble” –_

_He guesses –_

_Some guilt –_

_As if –_

_He **guesses**? –_

_Selfish bastard –_

_And yet…_

And yet Sanji feels like maybe he understands. Like maybe, amazingly, he gets where Zoro is coming from.

“I’m sort of… glad I met you,” Zoro says. He soldiers through this admission with a suicidal carelessness.

“I know you’re having a moment here,” Sanji says, “and it’s really sweet and all – but why this, why now? Weren’t we done with this bullshit a week ago?”

“I thought so too,” Zoro says, having the gall to shrug. _He’s acting like it’s no big deal now! Stoic bastard, I’ll –_

“I’ve never liked Tatsuya,” Zoro continues, “so I’m glad that this is where my treatment of you has led me. And I know I ruined your life, but –” _But!_ Sanji screams inside. _Fucking bastard! But!_ “– I was mostly alone before I met you. However you feel about me, and vice versa, when it comes down to it, I like having you around.”

Sanji isn’t sure what he’d been expecting the “but” to be, but it’s not that. Like a dissipating morning mist his anger falls away, to be replaced by a deep clarity. _He’s just like me._

Zoro clears his throat again. “It’s good… to have people. People you can trust.”

Sanji thinks, _Damn him_. The thought is tired, without much conviction. “The last thing I needed,” he says quietly, “was a way to relate to you. It sure as hell doesn’t make any of this easier on me.” _He’s the cause for all this – never forget that. He’s not your friend._

“Like I said,” Zoro says. “I’m not sorry.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Sanji says, pulling the mirror in front of him down and setting about fixing his hair. “You have no conscience. I’m just an excuse for you to kill your boss.” He knows he’s acting flippant; he also doesn’t care.

“I don’t need you for that,” Zoro says, voice a sharp-edged sword. “I don’t need you for any of this, except…”

“Except that I’m something to do now you’re out of work,” Sanji prompts. Zoro gives a stiff nod. “Most people pay me for my company,” Sanji says, admitting defeat to his fringe and reaching into his jeans pocket to withdraw a plain black hair clip. He scrapes his fringe back and clips it to the top of his head, checking with the mirror for stray strands. Satisfied, Sanji puts the mirror back in place and turns to Zoro, who is watching the road as if he hadn’t been watching Sanji through that whole process.

“I’ve decided that I don’t care,” Sanji says, matter-of-factly. “Use me for whatever. It’s occurred to me that I’ve gone past the point of giving a shit about your motives – all I want is for Tatsuya to be gone so I can start getting my life back.”

Zoro shoots him a quick sideways look. “Use you?” he says, frowning, the side of his nose twitching – a tic which Sanji chooses to interpret as disgust.

Sanji glares at Zoro, and turns to the window. _Not what I meant,_ he thinks. _Definitely not._

Silence descends over the car again, though it somehow lacks those tense undertones of before. _It’s as though with every conversation we have,_ Sanji thinks, _there’s a switch, a reaction – we fight, and ten minutes later we’re admitting something else – another secret, another onslaught of feelings…_ Sanji sighs. The static on the radio flickers, voices coming through stronger and stronger until the car is filled with the chipper voice of a female weather reporter. The sun has almost fully set; only the tiniest stripe of orange now shines on the horizon, and Sanji calmly watches as it fades to nothing.

He remembers something Zoro had said earlier; something about Tatsuya. “Hey,” he says quietly.

A simple “Hm?” is Zoro’s answer.

“Why do you dislike Tatsuya?”

“Oh,” Zoro says, as if he’d been expecting the subject to come up. Suddenly embarrassed, he lifts a hand from the wheel and scratches the back of his head. “He’s impersonal,” he says, “like one of those department store mannequins. It’s difficult for me to follow a man I can’t relate to; a man whose motives I can’t immediately grasp, whose actions always feel… like they lack emotional conviction.”

Zoro taps his fingers on the wheel as Sanji stares, slightly open-mouthed.

“That’s not what I would have guessed, but okay,” Sanji finally says. “I think I can see what you mean.”

Zoro nods. “You’ve met him,” he says. “Maybe you gauged it yourself, in some way.”

“Our meeting was very brief,” Sanji snorts, “and consisted mostly of him throwing me into pieces of furniture.”

“That I saw,” Zoro smirks. “Brutal.”

“But I think… I did see something – or rather a lack of something.”

“A lack of passion,” Zoro offers, quietly.

“Yeah.”

The silence that falls then is absolute, and it follows them all the way into Tokyo.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, here it is - chapter 5! At a wordcount of 8,650, it's the longest so far. I'm tired of reading over it looking for mistakes, so I'm publishing it. If you find a plothole I've missed, I'll fix it (providing it's not something I intend to clear up in the next chapter - which will likely be the last, by the way!). Thank you all for reading this far!

The car shudders to a halt near the entrance of an expensive-looking hotel. Zoro kills the engine and says, "This is it."

Sanji steps out onto the pavement and shuts the door. The  _clunk_  of the locks sliding into place follows a few seconds later. He jogs a few steps to catch up to Zoro as they cross the street, taking in the area with a rabbit-in-headlights intensity.  _Idiot,_  he thinks.  _They can't have followed you here._  Still, he can't help but look behind him. He sees a quiet city square, a distant arrangement of office buildings, glowing lights and signs, a few softly rustling trees and a lone ginger cat – but no thuggish pursuers.

As they near the door to the hotel a large man in black standing outside – a bouncer, perhaps – flicks his eyes to Zoro, his face remaining passive even as he reaches out a hand to stop the swordsman in his tracks. He grunts, "No funny business this time." Zoro nods, and he grudgingly lets them pass.

They're greeted by the hotel's impressive atrium – a twinkling chandelier hangs overhead, and along the wall to the right illuminated water flows from ceiling to floor in a serene, continuous loop. Dense green potted trees and white armchairs adorned with gold thread decorate the waiting area. The pretty hostess smiles at Sanji as they enter, taking tiny steps in her heels and pencil skirt to position herself behind the check-in desk near the door.

"Reservation?" she says, flipping open a large leather-bound book.

"We're meeting someone in the restaurant," Zoro says, keeping his eyes on the book. "He should be under 'scheduled entertainment'"

She runs a finger quickly down the page. "Ah, here he is – party of four? You two are the last to arrive." She waves towards the door. "Go right on through."

Sanji could swear that the rest of the tension in Zoro's shoulders leaves as he moves through the door to the restaurant. The restaurant is warm and pleasantly decorated, and the room hums with conversation

Zoro and Sanji arrive at the bar – an expanse of curved, polished black granite behind which rise several shelves of liquors back-lit by a golden glow. Only one man sits there.

Sanji whispers, "Is that him?"

Zoro shakes his head as Sanji moves to stand next to him, both of them looking towards the stranger. The man's head is bowed; he seems not to have noticed them at all. It's not until Zoro clears his throat that the man turns around. Without standing he reaches out a hand to Zoro, and as Zoro takes it the man clasps Zoro's hand between both of his own and shakes it almost reverently.

"So good to see you again, Roronoa Zoro!" he exclaims. His voice is pitched higher than his apparent height would suggest – and indeed when he hops nimbly down from his stool and alights before them Sanji sees that he is incredibly tall: seven feet, at least. Sanji examines the rest of the man's features – most noticeable of all is his afro, an impressive mass of black hair, impeccably cared for. His skin is dark and peppered with imperfections particular to those who spend a lot of time in the sun _._ His eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses with lenses shaped like sideways hearts touching point to point, but his expressive mouth is smiling hugely, and this smile seems to radiate throughout his entire body, exuding from his large hands, the movement of his shoulders, the creases in his aged face and, most importantly, from his voice.

His clothes are especially peculiar. On his thin, intimidatingly tall frame is a long-sleeved black shirt with a red collar and frilled maroon sleeves, vertically striped black and orange trousers, a pair of heavy black boots with large heels – these give him several inches of extra height – and an orange sleeveless feather jacket. Nestled between the feathers at his throat is a ruffled purple cravat. It shouldn't work, but on this man it does.

 _He's a character, that's for sure,_  Sanji muses.  _But he seems very sincere._

He releases Zoro and turns to Sanji, proffering his hand in the same way. "A friend of Zoro's?" he says, shaking Sanji's hand with a strength that jars Sanji's arm up to the shoulder, tremors running through his body like the vibrations of a tuning fork.

In an effort avoid a complicated explanation on the nature of his and Zoro's relationship, Sanji makes a small non-committal noise and gives his name.

He nods and drops Sanji's tingling hand. "Ah, how rude of me; I have not introduced myself." He draws back and places a hand flat on his chest. "My name is Brook. I am very pleased to meet you both. Of course I already know you, Zoro, but I believe it has been a long while since we last saw each other. You have grown taller…"

"A lot's changed since we last met," Zoro says.

Brook hums softly and turns back to the bar, reaching behind the stool. When he faces them again there's a black cane in his hand. He points with the cane, towards a door to the right of the bar. On the door is a plaque with "Private" engraved into the silver. "Shall we?" Brook says, and, still humming, he leads them through it.

Beyond the door is a hallway. The walls are paneled with a rich, dark wood, and the floor is covered with a deep red carpet. They pass a half dozen doors, all numbered and closed, before Brook stops and pushes the last door (marked "8") open.

The three of them step inside a fairly large office. The first thing to catch Sanji's eye is the massive model ship on the oak cabinet behind the desk; aside from being much bigger than any model ship Sanji's seen (which, granted, isn't many), he's quite sure that whoever put it together took so many liberties with the plans as to render the ship unrecognisable from its original design. Zoro stares, momentarily aghast, at the ship. He catches Sanji's eyes and Sanji snorts. Zoro smirks back, but only for a second, as at that moment the door to their left bangs open and from the en-suite bathroom a man emerges.

Within a second of his appearance he has Zoro in his arms. Sanji gapes as Zoro's feet leave the floor. With his arms tightly pinned Zoro struggles ineffectively for several seconds, until the man lowers him to the floor and steps back, grasping his shoulders with his large hands. Zoro's ears and cheeks are burning crimson, but the man doesn't seem to care. A bright grin spread across his face as he says, "Zoro, it's been a while! I'm happy to finally see you again!"

Zoro crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly looking bashful. "I've been busy… Sorry Franky…"

"Speaking of…" Franky turns to Sanji, holding out a hand to shake. Sanji takes it, his hand warmly enveloped to his wrist. Feeling bemused more than anything else, Sanji gives his name.

"Sanji… Yeah, I've heard." Franky lets go of Sanji's hand and claps him on the back, hard enough that Sanji coughs. "You're out of money, huh?"

Sanji nods, eyes watering slightly.

"Well, I'm here to help! I've got a job in mind already." Removing his jacket and flinging it at the armchair in the corner, Franky sits behind the big desk and starts shuffling through a pile of papers. Dressed in an unbuttoned red and blue Hawaiian shirt, a thick gold chain and a pair of tight, dark blue shorts which look more suited to be streamlined swimming gear, he cuts an unlikely figure against the windowless backdrop of his office. The only piece betraying his eccentricity is the odd, weapon-adorned model ship towering behind him.

There's also his bright blue hair. It rises a full head above him, coiffed into the shape of a retreating tidal wave and held strong, Sanji suspects, by the aid of his new boss' spirit.

Finally Franky holds a sheath of papers aloft and grins. Moving out from behind the desk and taking a seat on the edge, he removes the paperclip and holds the papers before him, pinched between thumb and forefinger. "This," he says, "is a piece of the Treasure Tree Adam. I want you two to steal it for me."

Zoro and Sanji lean forward to peer at the photograph in unison – beneath a spotlight, before a blurred backdrop of glass displays and red velvet rope sits a single piece of wood. The information stand reads ' _Eucalyptus regnans_ _, (Mountain ash), 1891.'_

"This photo was taken at an exhibition a little over a year ago," Franky explains. "I lost track of the piece for several months, but it's recently surfaced again. It's going up for auction here in Tokyo tomorrow night."

"What's so special about it?" Zoro says.

"You've never heard of the Treasure Tree Adam?"

Zoro shakes his head as Franky gazes past him, apparently contemplating the wall, or some great scene that no one else in the room can see. With a sparkle in his eyes he turns back to his audience. "At just over 160 meters, Adam was and is still considered the largest single-stem tree to grow in human history. Adam was discovered in Tasmania in 1889 – of course, he was measured only after he'd fallen."

"It – he was cut down?" Sanji says.

Franky nods. "Over 120 years ago now; this is the last fully intact piece available for viewing by the public. Most other pieces are held in private collections, and they're even harder to track down."

Zoro looks from Sanji to Franky and back again, mouth curved in a mischievous smirk. Sanji knows what he's thinking even before he says it. "Sounds like fun, eh, cook?"

Sanji sighs. "There's a plan, right?"

Franky raises his hands, palms facing outward. "That's your department. I'll supply weapons – demolitions, if you need 'em – but the in 'n' out is up to you two."

"Right," Sanji sighs, then frowns. "Demolitions?"

Franky shrugs. "Hey, you look like a sharp guy, I'm sure you'll figure it out. An auction house ain't a prison – there'll be…" he gestures for a moment, "…an easy opening. Somewhere. I'm sure"

"You ever been to an auction house?" Sanji says, turning to Zoro. The swordsman shakes his head again. Sanji mutters, "Well, there's a first time for everything…"

Looking back at Franky, Sanji nods. "Alright – we'll take the job."

"Super! I knew I could count on you!" Franky slots the papers into a brown manila folder and passes it to Sanji. He crosses his big arms over his chest, displaying the two bright blue stars tattooed on his forearms. "You have a day to gather information. I'm sorry to give you so little time, but it's gotta be done." He looks at Zoro, and adds, "By someone I trust."

"Why can't you come with us?" Sanji says.

"Building flashy model ships and blowing things up are my specialties," Franky grins. "Sneaking around, precision work… not so much."

He shoots them a thumbs-up and another grin as they leave. They follow Brook's colourful back up the hallway to the restaurant, where they say their goodbyes.

They step back out onto the dark street. Feeling a little whiplashed, Sanji stands quietly on the pavement for a moment, looking out over the square to the shining city centre beyond.

"Oi, airhead," Zoro says, from across the street. "We gotta go case this place out."

Sanji snorts. "'Case out'?" He crosses over to the car as Zoro frowns, and halfheartedly kicks the swordsman's ankle as he passes on his way to the passenger side. Zoro swears and swats at him, just grazing Sanji's upper arm with his knuckles.

Sanji opens his door and, pent-up anxiety coming out in a fit of immaturity, sticks out his tongue. "Too slow, shithead."

They slam their doors at the same time, and Zoro starts up the car.

"We can't fuck this up," he says suddenly.

Sanji looks over as they pull out into the street and head for the twinkling city lights shining just beyond the square. "I know," he says. "I don't really fancy going to jail over a log. I don't want to go to jail at all, actually."

"It's not just that," Zoro huffs. "It's Franky. We can't let him down."

"Then we won't," Sanji says, side-eyeing the swordsman and frowning.

"Good." Zoro pauses for a moment, then reaches over and punches Sanji in the arm. "That's for kicking me."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not surprisingly, the hardest part of the heist is convincing Zoro to stick to a plan.

They park down the street and squint at their mostly-obscured target into the wee hours of the morning, breathing out clouds of vapour in the quickly cooling car. The auction house – a very old, very large red brick building, looms over a sloped lawn landscaped with blooming pink bushes and towering oak trees, dominating most of one side of a small residential street. The area is mostly quiet, and as the heavy, silent darkness of 4am settles over the neighbourhood, Sanji leaves Zoro and the car behind to pinpoint the positions of the guards. There turn out to be six – two each at the front and back entrances, and one patrolling each side.

After driving a short way back into the city to get Sanji a temporary weapon from one of Franky's associates, they return to the auction house an hour before sunrise and sit outside for several minutes in order to agree on a plan.

It's an exasperating conversation, to say the least.

Zoro thinks that breaking the front door down and using brute force to steal the Adam wood is their best option; Sanji suggests they sneak around the back and attempt to find a way in from there.

"Look," Sanji says, exasperated, "the only thing we're  _sure_  of is that the Adam wood is in there at all – we don't know anything about the number of people inside or the layout of the building!"

Zoro grumps. "We don't have enough time to plan this down to every little detail, dartboard head –"

"I know you've set your mind on murdering everyone inside, but that's  _not_  the best option!"

"I'm going to murder  _someone_  tonight," Zoro shoots back, glaring at Sanji.

Sanji sits back in his seat, fuming at the auction house from behind the fogged up windscreen. He remembers the knife strapped to his belt and shifts against the unfamiliar weight. If he can't get Zoro to focus and quietly complete this task with minimal loss of life, he may as well resign himself to letting the shitty green-haired freak cut down every guard in the goddamn building. When it comes down to it he may not have a choice.

"Franky asked us to do this quietly, didn't he?" Sanji finally says. "He called it precision work."

"I'm very precise. With a _sword_ ," Zoro says. His arms are now crossed over his chest, a petulant look playing over his shadowed face.

"Can't you just be… precise  _and_  quiet?" Sanji says, in a last-ditch effort. "Remember how you took down those guys at the hotel? Just conjure up that stealth again." If this doesn't work he's either going to punch him or push him out of the car and point at the house and say, "Sic 'em, boy!"

The thing is… Sanji  _wishes_  he had the confidence to follow Zoro's plan. But whenever he runs a hand over his ribs, or wraps his hands around his wrists he thinks, n _ot yet, not yet_ , and this horrible Knowing feeling that he's still not strong enough to fight gnaws at him with little rodent teeth, invading, tearing.

But Zoro's certainty of his fighting ability is almost infectious. Despite his knowledge of his own weaknesses, Sanji feels tempted to follow the swordsman straight through the front door, because perhaps that faith in Zoro would be enough. And there's no doubt in Sanji's mind that he won't back out; he has to be involved in the action, no matter what. How is he ever going to face Tatsuya if he can't do this?

"There's no need for stealth, cook. There're only six of them, and they don't have guns. Let's leave it up to fate."

"Leave it up to f – You know what? Fine!"

Sanji opens the door and steps out of the car. The chilly air hits him like a slap. Slamming the door behind him, he rounds the car and heads across the road, towards the house. He doesn't look back when Zoro's door opens and he calls out, "Oi!"

"You don't want to make a plan? That's fine!" Sanji calls back, still facing forward, striding onto the sidewalk as Zoro follows, swearing under his breath. He hears Zoro's feet scuffle on the road, a metallic  _clink_ , and the sound of a car door being carefully closed. "We'll go in guns blazing like  _total_  fucking imbeciles, see if I care if we both die!"

Zoro draws up beside him, matching his pace. In each hand is a sword, and on his face is a diabolic grin.

"Now that's more like it."

Sanji shoots him a glare. "You're unbelievable."

"You ready for a party?"

Sanji faces forward, the house looming over them, the shadows of the guards pacing just beyond the trees.

He smiles, and in the low light he looks malicious, depraved. "Fuck, yes."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sanji may be itching for some action, but still he stays true to his original plan and insists that they use the back entrance to the house. Zoro, surprisingly, agrees. Sanji guesses that the imminence of a fight has cast his own ridiculous idea of a 'plan' from his mind.

They take the narrow path between the auction house's tall hedge border and the lane running along beside it. Though the sun won't be appearing on the horizon for a while yet, the darkness has already begun to lift. Deep black shadows turn to hazy greys, and for this, the going is easy. Sanji follows Zoro up the grassy incline and past the eastern wall of the house, looking for lighted windows and finding none.

When they reach the end of the path Zoro suddenly speeds up. Expecting that at this point they would slow down to confer again, Sanji whispers a surprised expletive. He sticks close as Zoro leads the way into the field behind the house (a small graveyard, it seems, though Sanji barely had time to confirm this) and vaults the small wrought iron gate. Sanji has barely cleared the gate himself before the two guards crumple onto the grass.

Zoro gathers their radios and ties their hands and feet with their own shirts. He gags their mouths and drags them from sight, moving both of them at once in a demonstration of strength which has Sanji muttering  _"Show-off_ …"

Zoro hides the guards behind an artistically-planted shrub garden at the back of the lawn and re-emerges with a nasty glint in his eye. He picks up his swords as Sanji stands still with his heart beating like the footfalls of a sprinting horse. His whole body feels warm, tense, and there's a coil of pressure unfurling in his gut – a familiar feeling, but not one he's ever felt in a situation such as this.

He tries to control his breathing as he follows Zoro into the house. His thoughts are so caught up in completely unsuitable-to-the-situation scenarios that he doesn't see Zoro suddenly stop until it's almost too late – one more step and he would have fallen over the crouched swordsman. He waits as Zoro peers around the corner into the darkness of the adjoining hallway, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. Zoro turns around, not quite looking at Sanji as he says, "There's someone there."

Sanji adopts a derisive look; "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Zoro sneers and disappears into the hallway. There's a muffled yell and a thump, and when Sanji picks his way through the dark to Zoro he finds the swordsman standing over another knocked-out guard – this one with his limp upper body propped awkwardly against the wall, as though after being hit unconscious he had slid face-first down the pretty floral wallpaper.

Sanji notes the calm look in Zoro's eyes, the way his alert eyes watch the corridor, his head turning like that of an eagle on a perch high above his territory. Sanji already knows that Zoro has a history of dirty deeds and violent behaviour, but it's never been quite so evident that this is the swordsman's natural habitat.

He thinks back to the first time he and Zoro met, at Tatsuya's old base in the hotel, recalling the way Zoro had taken down a half dozen enemies within a few seconds, how he'd carried Sanji up four flights of stairs, how he'd driven them all away, that love of destruction burning in the grin on his face and the look in his one golden eye; back then Sanji had regarded Zoro as a kind of madman, but now he finds that he relates. This realisation is, for whatever reason, not as shocking as it probably should be.

And so they move quietly through the house, footfalls muffled by the thick rugs covering the dark wood floors. In the staff kitchen they encounter an early-rising employee brewing coffee. Somehow she slips past them and runs, yelling, into the main showroom. They follow her as two men and a woman, all dressed in security personnel uniforms, barrel into the room by a side-door. As the first woman escapes the others advance on Zoro and Sanji, wary and poised to defend or attack.

Zoro mutters, "We've gotta do this quickly; get the Adam wood and get out."

"We haven't even found the thing yet!" Sanji hisses.

Keeping his eyes on the guards carefully weaving around the displays halfway across the room, Zoro nods to his left. Sanji turns and instantly sees it, sitting prettily lit-up by an overhead spotlight in the display case from Franky's picture. It's pretty big, but Sanji reckons they'll have no problem carrying it to the car.  _Still,_  he thinks, _it'll only be possible if we get rid of these guys and escape before their reinforcements arrive._

Sanji watches the guards, noting that each of them holds a long baton. The two men are fit-looking and handsome. One is quite short and heavy, but his arms are well-defined by muscle. The woman wears her dark hair in a tight ponytail – every single strand pulled back and pinned.

As they advance, the stocky guard calls out in a rough voice, "Surrender, and we won't hurt you!"

"So", Sanji says, ignoring him. "What's the plan?"

"The plan?" Zoro says, voice low. He snorts. "There is no plan."

He surges forward as the guards exclaim and freeze in place among the antiques, watching in horror as this green-haired, one-eyed demon descends upon them.

Sanji stares for a moment before he thinks that there's  _no way_  Zoro's having all the fun this time, and he runs towards the fray with his knife drawn.

Zoro incapacitates the first man before Sanji arrives – Zoro practically lands on him, and he crumples under 180 pounds of muscle. Zoro engages with the stocky man and the woman, holding them off with the flats of his blades. They fight well with the batons, displaying impressive courage for hired security facing a well-built man using two swords.

The woman notices Sanji first, and he ducks as she swings her baton at him. He comes up running and takes a flying leap at the man and connects with his hip, kicking him to the floor.

"Nice of you to join us!" Zoro calls. "I've taken one down already!" Sanji can't see the swordsman but he knows there's a taunting grin on his face.

"If you hadn't rushed in without me…" Sanji yells back, dodging his opponent's baton and slashing at his chest with the knife. The guard parries with his baton and jumps away, panic momentarily peeking through his tough expression.

"You think you could take them both?" Zoro laughs. "Then here, have at them!"

The woman shrieks as Zoro pushes her towards Sanji. She bumps him into a low table and they topple over it, going down in a confused tangle of limbs.

When they stand, Zoro is gone.

"Shit!" Sanji says, turning in a circle. Zoro must be in the room still, probably crouching behind a display, but Sanji sees no sign of him.

"Don't think I'll let you run after him!" the woman yells.

Sanji instinctively ducks and turns in one motion; the woman's baton just barely misses his head. He takes his chance as her momentum unbalances her to swipe her ankles with one leg, sending her crashing to the floor again. Meanwhile, the man is coming at him, this time with a little more care.

Sanji quickly straightens and brandishes his knife. The man slows and eyes him, searching for his weak spots. Sanji feels like one of the pieces up for auction – studied, appraised, judged. Apparently the man commits to a bid, because he launches himself at Sanji with a short yell. He aims for Sanji's side with his baton – it looks like his entire weight goes behind that move, and Sanji prepares to dodge and knock him off balance as he did with the woman.

At the last moment he feints and slams his other hand, fist clenched, into Sanji's head, catching the side of his ear and his jaw with an impact that rattles his brain, disorientating him completely. He falls away from his opponent, his ear ringing and his skin burning. Within moments the side of his face, though still aching, has gone numb, especially along his jawbone.

Struggling to regain focus, Sanji slashes at the air with his knife, and in his confusion he trips backwards over the prone body of the first guard and falls heavily on his tailbone. Sharp pain joins the ache in his face. He swears, rubbing at the base of his spine.

The male guard's expression is more open now, and Sanji can see that most of his wariness is gone. The female guard, too, looks eager to pummel him with the baton poised and ready at her side.

Sanji scrambles to his feet and retreats several meters, until he feels the hard edge of a display table dig into the small of his back. Feeling cornered and out of options, he watches as the guards step closer and closer and thinks frantically about how to fight back. Somewhere in the room Zoro is still watching, and Sanji takes a small amount of comfort in this, but how far gone does Sanji have to be before Zoro steps in to help?

The guards begin to move faster, and Sanji feels an unexpected surge of strength as they draw nearer. The male guard passes his female colleague, putting a small but significant amount of distance between them – had it not been for this, Sanji may have become overwhelmed. He crouches slightly, fear and adrenaline flowing, and ducks past the male guard as he passes, turning faster than he thought possible of himself and kicking the man hard in the middle of his back. He falls over the display with a crash, shattering a large, expensive-looking bowl.

Aware that the woman's momentum has not slowed, Sanji turns again and only just manages to block her swing with the baton. Barely thinking to consider his actions, he slashes with the knife, cutting a thin line along the middle of her forehead. The cut begins to bleed at a startling pace, flowing as a thick red curtain into her eyes and over her cheeks. She stumbles away as Sanji watches, suddenly horrified.

"I didn't mean –"

There's a cracking noise behind him, and Sanji turns to see the male guard rising from a pile of splintered wood and shattered glass. He faces Sanji, fuming.

He points. "You'll pay for that!"

Sanji isn't sure if the guard wants him to pay for the injury of the female guard, the shoving of her colleague into an expensive antique, or both; he never finds out. As the guard moves to rush him again, a hand comes up behind him – a hand holding a sword – and bashes him in the head. He falls to the ground in a heap.

Standing behind him, looking entirely too pleased with himself, is Zoro.

Sanji observes the piece of Adam wood balanced with his left hand on one heavily muscled shoulder, the sword clenched between his teeth, the other held at an angle in his free hand, and the battle-lust blazing in his single golden eye.

Sanji scowls. "I had that," he says. "There was no need for you to jump in."

"Couldn't let you have two of the three, after all," Zoro says, shrugging ever-so-slightly.

Sanji straightens, moving from fight-mode to defense-mode. "I did all the work here. How do you feel about taking the leftovers?"

Zoro opens his mouth to retort, but freezes when a bang – the unmistakable sound of a door being slammed open – echoes from the foyer.

Without a word, Zoro and Sanji make their escape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Zoro stops the car, once again, across the street from Franky's hotel.

He looks over at Sanji, simply watching as his companion struggles to regain a normal breathing tempo.

"Enjoyed that, didn't you?"

Escaping the police had been easy – easier, even, than losing the pursuit of Tatsuya's men on the night of their first meeting.

"More than I thought I would," Sanji admits. He refuses to meet Zoro's eye.

Zoro sighs. "With the state you're in… you can wait in the car. I'll take the Adam wood to Franky."

"Like hell, you asshole!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

Franky's exclamation of joy when they show up in his office with the Adam wood has to be the most genuinely happy reaction to Sanji's presence that he's ever seen.

Reverently, Franky takes the stolen artifact – wrapped in black cloth by Zoro – and places it on his desk. He steps quickly around to his chair and sits, pulling himself in as close to the wood as his ribs will allow, and removes the coverings. For a moment all he does is look.

Sanji feels as though he's intruding on something very personal.

Finally, Franky looks up at them.

"Thank you," he says.

They nod in unison.

Sanji watches as Franky scribbles an address onto a business card. He hands it to Sanji and says, "You'll find what you need here. Just tell them I sent you; you'll be welcomed with open arms. I'll wire them the payment when the deal is done."

Sanji nods again and takes the card, quickly reading the address on the back – it's local, at least, but otherwise he can't tell what kind of place it might be.

"I'll be in touch," Franky smiles. He shakes Sanji's hand a second time, claps Zoro on the back (solid as he is, Zoro barely moves at the violent contact) and salutes jokingly as they leave. They follow Brook, once again, out to the street.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Zoro pulls up outside the store, one wheel bumping up onto the pavement and down again as he parks. He turns off the car, but he doesn't move to get out. As Sanji reaches for the handle he says, "You're still sure about this?"

"Dead sure," Sanji says. He gets out of the car and shuts the door, listening as Zoro follows. He walks toward the front door, turning the brass handle and pushing it open. He steps inside and searches for the shop assistant as Zoro closes the door behind them. Sanji clears his throat and says, "Hello?"

From somewhere within the shop comes the sound of a chair scraping on wood and the words, "Usopp! We have potential paying customers!"

The girl who comes to greet them is slim and fair-skinned, with pretty features and shoulder-length, bright orange hair. She sticks out a hand and Sanji takes it, noting her soft palms and the gold bangles jangling on her wrist. "I'm Nami," she says. "Nice to meet you."

As Sanji releases her hand a man walks through the curtain hanging over the back door. "That's Usopp," Nami says. Usopp places the air rifle he's holding on the counter, wipes his fingers on the cloth folded over his shoulder and holds out his own hand for Sanji to shake. He shakes with both hands, one wrapped around Sanji's palm, the other placed warmly over the back of his knuckles, strong fingers curling over Sanji's wrist. A warm smile lights his face. His friendliness, so unusual for Sanji to experience, is slightly disarming.

Sanji discreetly examines this generously muscled, gun-toting black man. He wears his dark curly hair tied up at the back of his head, around which he has tied a green bandanna. Above his peculiar long nose are a pair of deep brown eyes that seem to smile even when his face is perfectly straight. His overalls are stained with oil, as is the faded brown t-shirt he's wearing underneath them.  _He looks dependable,_  Sanji thinks, realising right away that in the last few years he's thought the same of only a tiny handful of people.

"I'm Sanji," Sanji finally says.

Zoro offers his name too, giving Nami and Usopp small nods as greeting.

Sanji looks again at Nami. Since he saw her he's been trying to place the expression on her face. She looks kind, but underneath that is something else. It's another moment before he recognises it.

 _It's wariness_ , he thinks.  _Is_ _she scared? No... just careful. Exceptionally so._

Usopp is watching them too; behind the warmness in his eyes is a discerning gaze.  _He has a powerful stare,_  Sanji thinks.  _I bet he's noticed everything about us since we walked in the room._

"Uh… why don't we go to the back room to talk?" Zoro says.

Nami stares at him and slowly nods. She walks to the door, flips the sign to 'Closed' and leads them through the curtain, Usopp following behind.

Beyond the door is a flight of stairs and, at the top, a sitting room, which is small and warm, furnished with an array of plush couches and a low wooden table which sits between them. Someone has hung potted plants from the ceiling and warm-hued paintings on the walls. Usopp moves to the window, glancing through the glass to the street below before pulling the blinds down.

As Zoro and Sanji take their seats Sanji says to Nami, "You must know a lot about guns to run a store like this."

Nami sits on the couch opposite them, crossing her long legs at the ankles. "Oh, I own this building and handle the money and such, but he's the weapons expert." She points behind her, where the long-nosed man is standing.

"That's right!" Usopp says, grinning self-assuredly. "I know everything about guns. You two couldn't've come to a better place."

"We're not looking for a gun," Zoro says bluntly.

Usopp glances at Sanji and back to Zoro, expression changing in an instant from proud to nervous. Across from Sanji, Nami is staring too.

"You must not understand," she says, tone sharp. "This is a licensed gun store. We don't sell anything else."

She looks at Sanji and he flinches.  _Scary…_

"I've heard otherwise," Zoro says quietly. "Does the name Cutty Flam mean anything to you?"

Instantly, as though deflated like balloons, Nami and Usopp relax. Nami smiles warmly at them and looks over at Usopp, nodding slightly and murmuring something that Sanji doesn't catch. As Usopp disappears through an unmarked door to their right she says, "You should have said. Usopp was ready to knock you out." Sanji glances at Usopp's broad retreating back and doesn't doubt that for a second.

"I was enjoying the tension," Zoro says, predatory grin making an appearance. Nami rolls her eyes. She doesn't seem fazed as she stands and brushes her hands over the front of her skirt, smoothing the fabric, and tucks her hair behind her ears. She motions to the door, and silently they follow her through it.

She takes them down a narrow hallway, unlabeled crates and boxes towering over them on either side. Though narrow, crowded and dim, the passage is remarkably clean, and as he examines the boxes Sanji thinks that there must be a system here that only the two of them understand.

He looks ahead, at Nami's confident, easy step, and decides there and then to trust her – to trust both of them.

She pushes the door at the end of the hall open and ushers them through.

Standing at the head of a long wooden table is Usopp. Before him, sitting shining on a length of a dark green cloth, is a spread of magnificent range and value – rows upon rows of intricately decorated knives and daggers, Japanese katanas and heavy longswords, quivers of arrows that look hand-fletched, longbows and shortbows and crossbows, cruel, shudder-inducing guns unlike anything he'd seen displayed in the store, an assortment of whips (none of them anything like those he'd been asked to use by certain clients), a single studded mace which must, Sanji is sure, weigh more than him, a collection of slingshots, and a pile of smaller instruments that Sanji doesn't particularly want to know the uses for. At the furthest end of the table, closest to Usopp, are piles of boxes that Sanji guesses contain various types of ammunition. Everything is tagged with a white label on a string, divulging the price of each item.

"So?" Usopp says. "What do you think? It's amazing, right?"

"You could say that," Sanji murmurs, captivated.

Zoro has already left his and Nami's side and is moving quickly towards the end of the table. Nami lets him go and instead turns, grinning, to Sanji. She nudges his arm. "All of our best stock is here. A good bit of it is… technically illegal, of course. See anything you like?"

And he has – next to where Zoro is standing leaning over a long row of katanas, heavy, blissful concentration on his face, are the knives. Nami follows his gaze and nods, eyes shining.

Nami leads him over. Zoro has gone to another world; he doesn't so much as glance their way as they come to a stop next to him. She delicately waves a hand over the knives like a model selling perfume and says, "Pretty, aren't they? If you want a closer look you can pick them up – don't worry about damaging them or anything. They're high grade pieces – very tough."

The first thing he does on picking up his first knife is flip over the price tag. His body goes cold when he sees the number. He looks at Nami, sure that his face is as white as a sheet. "Trust me," she says, "everything here is worth the price, and you'd be looking at a number 20 to 30 percent higher with another dealer. Plus," she confides, frowning and glancing over at Usopp, "he won't let me cheat the customers. It's 'unfair'."

Usopp had clearly heard them, because he leaves his place at the head of the table and comes to join them. "She'd have us run out of town if I let her haggle with everyone who comes through," he laughs.

Nami replies by slapping him upside the head. "Idiot!" she barks. "You don't  _let_  me do anything. I'm a businesswoman; I  _know_  how to run a business properly, regardless of how I'd  _like_  to run it."

"Okay, okay," he whines, rubbing his head. "You're right…"

Nami puts her hand on her hips and grins. "Of course I am!"

Sanji watches them, laughing. "This is gonna sound kinda stupid," he says, "but I feel like I've known you guys for a really long time."

"I bet you say that to all the black market dealers you meet," Nami says slyly, but there's a blush rising in her cheeks. Beside her Usopp looks at Sanji with an embarrassed yet wholly happy look on his face.

"It's not stupid at all," Usopp says. "I get the same feeling about you. Some people are just like that, right?"

Nami nods and takes Usopp's hand. He squeezes it back, looking at her fondly.

"So," Nami says, cheeks still red, "what do you need a knife for, if you don't mind me asking? I suppose it's never a bad idea to have something, just in case, but…"

Sanji doesn't answer right away – though he's decided to trust them he's still not sure how much he should give away regarding his situation. Zoro, too, has finally taken notice of his surroundings and is watching Sanji. If he's trying to tell Sanji what to do it's in some kind of language Sanji doesn't understand, because his face is completely unreadable.

"It's… for protection," Sanji says.

Nami nods. She may have been planning on pressing for more information, but Sanji never finds out – a dull chime echoes through the room and she and Usopp immediately look up, their attention drawn from him. Nami adjusts her skirt and says, "You handle these guys. I'll wait until you're done before I bring her out here."

Usopp nods and Nami moves towards the door, patting Sanji's shoulder as she goes. "Don't let him go on too long, okay? He gets all wordy when it comes to his collection."

"It's a cool collection," Usopp huffs. "But she's right. We can't take too long. It makes me nervous, having all this stuff spread out like this." He claps his hands and rubs them together. "We'd better get down to business!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the three of them step through the curtain and into the shop, Sanji is at first sure that whoever set the door buzzer off earlier has already made a purchase and left. Nami is at the till shuffling expertly through a wad of bills, her lips moving soundlessly, and Sanji can't see anyone moving between the shelves.

But when they approach the desk and Sanji remarks that business must be good, Nami looks up, clearly distracted, and says, "This? Oh, no, I was just counting the money in the till…"

"Yeah, she does that," Usopp laughs. He's still chuckling when another door, one Sanji hadn't noticed earlier, opens behind the counter.

The woman who walks through is stunningly beautiful. Sanji can't help but gape as she enters the room, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. Beside him Zoro is also staring.

She's dressed in a deep purple, form-fitting top and white tailored pants. Her cropped black hair, damp and mussed as if newly toweled from a shower, frames her sharp nose and amused smile. Like Usopp, she has a dark complexion, though while his skin is rich and deep, hers is lighter and golden-toned, like honey. She appears older than Nami or Usopp, who Sanji has surmised are possibly younger even than him. Sanji is especially struck by her eyes, dark and intelligent and spookily piercing. Something about her gaze sends a shiver down Sanji's spine.

Still smiling that amused smile she nods at Sanji and turns to Zoro, no doubt to greet him in the same way, but when she catches Zoro's eye Sanji sees something in her face change. The smile disappears as her lips part and a flash of something flickers over her face. It lasts only a second, but once again Sanji's spine tingles as something invades the air in the room.

Whatever it is, Nami and Usopp seem not to have noticed. Nami has finished counting and is putting the bills away while Usopp leans with one elbow on the counter and a hand in his pocket, watching her. The woman places a hand on Nami's bare shoulder and Nami turns, a smile wiping the concentration from her face. "Feeling better?" she says.

"Yes," the woman replies, her voice low and slightly husky. "Thank you."

"Well, allow me to introduce you to my new friends," Nami says, touching the small of the woman's back and guiding her around the counter. "This is Sanji, and that's Zoro," Nami says, pointing. "I don't know what either of them does for a living, but they can afford to shop here, so they're okay by me." Nami gestures at the woman and says, "Guys, this is – "

"Nico Robin," Zoro growls.

"Oh!" Nami says, startled. "You know Robin already, Zoro?"

Zoro doesn't respond. He hasn't taken his eyes off of Robin for a second since she entered the room, and the atmosphere around them is slowly becoming thicker with unconcealed tension. Robin is still smiling, but there's a strained look beneath it, and she appears poised to either fight or flee.

Usopp looks between them, his eyebrows raised. "Uh…"

"Whatever's going on here," Nami asserts, "I'd like it to stop immediately. I won't have any trouble in my shop."

"Don't you know who she is?" Zoro says, turning his glare to Nami.

"Of course, she's my – "

"Because I do; from what I remember she's been on the run for more than twenty years, and she's wanted in seventeen countries. The list of warrants for her arrest is probably longer than how far I can pick her up and throw her, which is pretty damn far."

Nami shouts, "Yes, I know!" Her hands are on her hips again, and she's stepped in front of Robin, her shoulders squared at Zoro. "I know all of that, and I don't care. I've known Robin for years and she's never done wrong by me  _or_ Usopp, so shut it, you big oaf!" Nami crosses her arms and stares Zoro down. Sanji watches on in amazement as his gaze falters and eventually breaks completely. Behind Zoro, Usopp is grinning proudly. When Zoro steps back and looks away from Robin, the hostility hanging around his body slowly dimming – though never disappearing completely – Usopp grins and shoots Nami a grin and a double thumbs-up.

"Why would that bother you, anyway?" Sanji says to Zoro. "So what if she's a wanted criminal? So are you. So am I, in a way."

Usopp raises his hand, "Guilty. Thank God for political amnesty."

"It's not that," Zoro says, giving Usopp a surprised look. "She caused a lot of problems for us a few years back."

"When you say us you mean the men you used to work for but no longer associate with in any way, right?"

"'Men' is too specific a term, Sanji," Robin says softly from behind Nami. She moves forward, watching Zoro. "There are always women working in these organisations, too."

Zoro looks at her sharply, eyes blazing. "In fact," she says, "there were women in  _your_  organisation, weren't there, Mr Roronoa? I remember being a part of that."

"You weren't just a part of it," he spits out.

"No," she says coldly, still smiling. "I ran it."

Usopp suddenly raises both hands and steps away, looking apologetically at Nami. "This is straying into things-Usopp-doesn't-need-to-know-in-case-he-gets-tortured territory; I think I'm gonna go… check the stock or something."

"Christ, Usopp!" Nami says, rolling her eyes at his retreating back. "Sorry, Robin; he gets so nervous around you sometimes."

"He's smart," Robin says.

"You gotta admit, you do say some pretty scary stuff…" Nami mutters.

"So," Sanji says, still fixed on Zoro, "you really  _do_  know her!"

"Three years ago she was my boss," Zoro says. Without moving his head Zoro's stare darts quickly to Sanji and back to Robin, where it remains fixed. "Tatsuya worked one rung below her on the ladder – when she was done infiltrating, he took over."

"Infiltrating?" Nami says. She turns to Robin. "You never told me about that."

Robin shakes her head and, reaching up to brush Nami's fringe aside, says, "Only to keep you safe."

Nami crosses her arms, tapping her foot. "Well, don't. I'm a big girl. I can keep myself safe."

Robin nods, and drops her arm. She catches Zoro's gaze again and says, "You may as well tell them."

Sanji leans back against the counter and watches Zoro as he battles with his need to incriminate Robin in front of them and the conflicting desire to keep his past a mystery. Robin's eyes are clearly challenging him to act, and eventually the bitter side of him wins.

"I first met Robin six years ago," he says. "I'd just got back from a job here in Tokyo – I used to work here a lot, back then. When I came up to the boss' office she was there, sitting at his desk. By the next week she was working for him. Two years later she was second in command, and when the boss was taken in she took charge. Six months after that our offices were swarmed. Thirty-four arrested, sixteen dead. I escaped and so did she. That's when Tatsuya assumed control, allowing me back in, and sent us out to hunt for her. By then she was already long gone."

When Zoro stops talking there's a pause, until Nami raises her eyebrows, and says, "Oh, that's it?"

"She can tell you any details I left out later if you still want to know," Zoro replies, and falls silent.

"Not much of a talker, is he?" Nami says, looking at Sanji, who shrugs. Nami smiles and stands on tiptoe, looking over the shelves to the back of the store. "Usopp!" she calls. "You can come back now!"

"Have you stopped talking about Robin's shady past?" he calls back.

Robin laughs, then. It's a pleasant sound that instantly infects Nami too. She's smiling as she yells at Usopp, saying that yes, they have, and would he kindly get his ass over here.

Usopp shakes both Sanji's and Zoro's hands again as they prepare to leave. As he releases Sanji he reaches into one pocket with an oil-stained hand and pulls out a rectangular piece of white paper. Sanji takes it and realises that it's a business card, with Usopp's name and personal number printed on it in embossed black text. "Thank you," Sanji says, clutching the card like it's a lifeline.

"No problem! It's always good to have people you can count on, right? If you need anything you call me right away."

"Me too!" Nami chimes in, handing Sanji a similar card. She gives one to Zoro next, along with a hard stare. "Whatever issues you have with Robin," she says, "I'm sure you'll get over them once you've gotten to know her. She's not who she was six or even three years ago. Trust me." Zoro nods stiffly and takes the card, heading for the door as if he can't wait to escape.

"Awkward man…" Nami murmurs. She waves to Sanji and turns to Robin. "C'mon," she says. "We've got a lot to talk about." She takes Robin's hand and pulls her back through the door behind the counter, closing it behind them.

"You will visit when you can, won't you?" Usopp says. "There aren't many people we really, truly trust, but we have a good feeling about you two."

"Thank you, I will," Sanji says, a lump rising in his throat. He nods towards the door the girls had disappeared through. "She's a wanted criminal, but… I can trust Robin too, can't I? Nami seems great, and they're good friends, so…"

Usopp gives him a look. "Nami's more than great – she's incredible, and yes, you can trust Robin. Also… they're not just friends. Robin is Nami's girlfriend."

"She didn't seem like the type," Sanji muses.

Usopp's face is wary as he slowly says, "The type to be… into girls?"

"No," Sanji says, laughing, "into older women."


	6. Chapter 6

Soon after arriving home from Tokyo with Zoro, Sanji sits down on the sofa and holds his new knife up to the light. Though simple, it’s incredibly beautiful. The blade is straight, single-edged, and around 25 centimetres long – with its pale, polished silver sheen, it reflects light so softly that Sanji can hardly bear to think it might be sullied with blood in the near future.

When Zoro gets out the shower and dresses, and enters the lounge in sweatpants and a t-shirt with a towel to his head, roughly rubbing the water away, Sanji is still sitting on the couch with his hands resting on his lap and the knife held delicately in his palms.

Zoro nods at the knife. “You made a good choice,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sanji says distractedly. “It’s beautiful… so beautiful I don’t want to use it, but I can imagine myself doing so. Ever since the hospital I’ve been seeing red whenever I think of him.”

Zoro smirks. “Good. Hold onto that.” He sits on the other couch, towelling his hair, his face and neck still damp and glistening in places, and shrugs, looking at Sanji. “So… I can tell you more about Tatsuya, if you want.”

Sanji sits forward, laying the knife carefully on the side table. “Good,” he says. “I need to know more about him.”

Zoro stands and goes to the kitchen. Sanji watches as he pours himself a cup of sake, and as he hesitates – a sudden stillness in his hands and shoulders – before going back to the shelf and taking another cup, and pouring one for Sanji too.

He hands Sanji the cup without looking at him.

“What do you want to know?”

Sanji sighs and sits back. “Now that I have the chance to ask I can’t come up with anything, and the more we talk the less I’m sure I want to know. I dunno, maybe it’s better if I keep my image of him as simple as possible.”

“When the time comes to fight him you’ll know nothing about him, but he’ll know everything about you. Do you want that?”

“Of course not,” Sanji grimaces.

“Well, you should be wary of him,” Zoro snaps. “Even I am, and I’ve never been on the receiving end of one of his beatings.”

“You might have been,” Sanji points out, “if you hadn’t pinned all that stuff on me.”

“I did what I thought I had to do,” Zoro says, shrugging.

“You pass it off so easily,” Sanji snaps, “when it’s _my_ life that you ruined and _my_ friend who ended up in hospital.”

He stares at Sanji, golden eye burning with a cold intensity. “I killed a lot of people getting you out of that situation.”

“I’m surprised,” Sanji says. “You suddenly have an issue with killing people?”

Zoro sits back. He thinks for a moment. “Not really,” he says.

Sanji sighs, running a hand through his hair. He suddenly feels exhausted. He wants to fall into bed and sleep for ten years.

Zoro finishes the rest of his sake. He pours another, and stands up.

“What – where are you going?”

“Balcony,” Zoro replies. He makes his way silently over to the screen door, slides it open, and steps through. Sanji hesitates only a second before snatching up his own drink and following Zoro outside.

Zoro begins as soon as Sanji appears. “Eight years ago, Tatsuya was the respected head of a crime syndicate. They were registered as a designated _boryokudan_ in 1992 under a different boss – Tatsuya’s uncle, who retired seventeen years later and passed management of the group to his nephew.

“Tatsuya has fronted the organisation since then, steadily growing it, merging with smaller groups. As of now, his numbers total 15,000 across 315 clans.”

At this, Sanji raises his eyebrows. He’d never imagined the scope of Tatsuya’s operations could be so large – larger than most other criminal organisations in the country. A pit of hot, sick fear begins to churn in his throat and stomach.

“He deals in most things – drugs, weapons, protection services, people – but he never just dabbles. Everything he does is calculated and exact. He is not a man of halves. Believe that he’s currently going after you with everything he’s got, and that it’s a miracle he hasn’t found you yet.”

Zoro tips back his head and drains his cup of sake. He stretches his back with a half-hearted yawn and moves to the edge of the balcony, where he leans his hip against the railing and, finally, faces Sanji properly.

“Those who don’t know him are terrified of him. Those who do are smart enough not to cross him or his family, for any reason. There’s absolutely nothing he won’t do to push his organisation up the ranks. He aims to be among the top crime families in Japan; and he’s damn nearly there.”

“He sounds like a maniac.”

“He is one.”

“And yet you worked for him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Money,” Zoro says. “It’s almost always money.”

He pauses, and adds; “And of course, I’m not bothered by most of it. A job’s a job to me. Even if it means doing work for a demon.”  
Sanji swallows nervously. “So he’s really not just… some local boss, then?”

“No,” Zoro says. “He has clans all over the prefecture.”

“I haven’t been safe once since it happened, have I?”

Zoro shakes his head. Sanji swallows, hard.

“The only reason you’ve escaped detection so far is…”

“Because of you.”

Zoro shrugs. He looks over the edge of the balcony, at the dim street below. “I haven’t done much,” he admits, “but taking you in and knowing about the clans and how they operate helped. So did getting you out of the city today, and being sure you didn’t go anywhere especially dangerous. Tatsuya is powerful, but not all-powerful. There are places he can’t see you, and it’s lucky that I know where to go.  
“This house isn’t in his records, and I was careful never to reveal too much about myself, just in case. The only way he’ll find this place is if he has one of us followed, and that won’t happen.”

“Why?” Sanji says.

Zoro gives him a look. “It just won’t.”

Sanji still feels sick, but there’s something else boiling inside him too. All this time he’s been careful not to stir the pot too much, been wary of this green-haired swordsman who keeps saving his life, and any and all of the motivations he might have for his actions.  
It’s been hard, but keeping Law in mind has helped.

Now, sitting on the balcony, listening to Zoro speak while the full moon bathes them both in a silver glow, as around them their little city sleeps, Sanji watches Zoro and shivers – not because he’s cold, though there is a chill in the air, but because his body is anticipating something.

The wind picks up. Sanji shivers violently in his t-shirt and makes a decision.

“You know,” Zoro says suddenly, “I think it’s almost time.”

Sanji makes a small noise. “Oh.”

“Tomorrow night…” Zoro says slowly. “He should be at his main office… He’ll be easy to get to – if you know how, which I do.”

“So this is it? We formulate a plan and go?”

Zoro straightens up. “Yup. But first, I gotta sleep. I’m fuckin’ exhausted.”

When Zoro goes inside Sanji doesn’t follow, though he wants to. Now that Zoro has left him alone he feels tormented, and so guilty he can’t stand it. Though he’s done nothing yet, he knows it’s only a matter of time.

He taps a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and leans back in his chair to smoke it, sliding down until he can tilt his head against the back and stare at the moon. Tonight it’s brighter than the street lights, perfectly round and tinted with yellow. When he closes his eyes there’s a faint imprint of its shape on his eyelids.

He falls asleep in the chair, and when he wakes again at two in the morning he’s in bed, lying on top of the covers with all his clothes on, and though he tries for several minutes, he can’t remember how he got there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two hours after dawn the next day, twelve hours before they are scheduled to leave the city, Sanji convinces Zoro to drive him to the hospital.

“I’m not your chauffeur, you know,” Zoro grumbles. Sanji is interested to note that despite the early hour, and their late night, Zoro’s eyes are clear and focussed.

“Would you rather I called a taxi? Got a bus? Gave myself over to the mercy of public transport where _anyone_ might see me?”

“I just don’t get why you need to go at all,” Zoro says, huffing.

“Don’t be thoughtless,” Sanji replies, ignoring Zoro’s red-faced spluttering and walking out the front door. He sits himself in the passenger seat of Zoro’s Camry and waits as Zoro locks the door behind them.

Zoro gets him back soon enough; a moment after settling himself into the driver’s seat and buckling his seat belt, Zoro turns to Sanji and says, “Get in the back and lie down.”

Sanji opens his mouth, trying to think of something to say – he wants badly to give a snappy retort, get the last word in – but Zoro is right. They’ve been seen at the hospital before, and though Zoro has a new disguise, it’s better for Sanji to hide than risk being recognised.  
Grumbling only a little, Sanji quickly exits the car and re-enters through the door behind the passenger seat. He lies down, trying to accommodate himself among the seat belt fasteners and various pieces of Zoro’s belongings.

Positioned so, Sanji doesn’t see the scenery passing by, or the city lit by golden sunshine, or Zoro’s fingers tapping a dysrhythmic tune on the steering wheel. All he sees is patches of blue sky, passing power lines and birds, and behind the grey seat-cover to his right, the top of Zoro’s newly-dyed dark brown hair.

He knows that the simplicity of what’s happening around him might calm his racing mind, but it seems more realistic to go inside himself for a while and think over what he’s about to do.

Too soon, Zoro clears his throat, still tapping his fingers, and says, “We’re almost there.”

Sanji makes a noise, to let Zoro know he’d heard. He would rather lie there, in the back of the bi-coloured Camry with Zoro’s personal affects – magazines and papers and empty beer bottles – scattered around him, and let the rolling car put him to sleep.

Sanji thinks about the first time they met. Zoro, a total stranger at the time but guilty of everything that had happened to Sanji, had saved his life. He’d killed for him. He’d carried him away from his pursuers, lost them on the deserted midnight streets cloaked in midwinter snow. Sanji had let him sleep in his bed. And when Sanji’s home became compromised, Zoro had offered up his own.  
For all of their bickering, Sanji respects him.

 _But is it fair to expect Zoro to fight for me, still?_ Sanji wonders. _When is the debt repaid? When Tatsuya lies dead? Or did we pass that point long ago, and all Zoro has done since was out of choice, not duty?_ Sanji isn’t sure why but he feels the latter is true. Since their conversations on the matter the day before, he’s now sure that Zoro believes the debt repaid, and that he continues to help Sanji because he enjoys his company – or something to that effect.

Whether he feels anything beyond that is still up in the air, and Sanji tries not to dwell on it too much.

Zoro slows as he approaches the parking lot, stopping to accept a ticket from the machine next to an empty white booth shaped like a large telephone box. They pass under the access bar and find a park.

But before Sanji can sit up, Zoro turns around and stares sternly down at him. “Stay here. I’ll check out the area.”

“Oh, my god –” Sanji starts, but Zoro is already out the door and walking casually towards the main building, his hands shoved in the pockets of his plain grey sweatpants. Sanji can’t watch him go, so he lies back and closes his eyes, trying to imagine Zoro, with his dark brown hair, empty piercing holes, narrowed golden eyes, and unfamiliar loping stride, making his away surreptitiously around the building; checking vantage points for silver flashes or sudden movement; pretending to read the map mounted near the entrance; pretending uncharacteristic clumsiness as he passes people on the pathways. It’s a funny vision – something they’d gone over earlier that morning, before setting out for the hospital, before Zoro had put on his grumpy face.

Sanji, allergic to hair dye, could only bring a hat and glasses. He hadn’t agreed that Zoro would scout out the area before letting him leave the car, but they had talked about having Zoro alter the way he acted. Those under Tatsuya’s command who’d known Zoro better would likely recognise the way he moved, so Sanji had suggested small incidences of clumsiness and a looser walking style.

Zoro, unfortunately, is not a great actor. Sanji can only lie there and hope that no one notices him.

Eventually though, Zoro comes back, scaring the life out of Sanji as he opens the door and sits heavily in the driver’s seat.

Sanji lifts his head. “Are we clear?”

Zoro stares intently out of the front windshield. Finally, he half turns his head and nods, then exits the car again. He waits while Sanji extracts himself from the car and brushes himself off, his disguise (a blue beanie with his hair tucked underneath, strategically pulled down low to hide his eyebrows, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses with the lenses punched out) already in place.

Zoro snorts. “You look like an idiot.”

Sanji doesn’t dignify this with an answer. Instead, he walks around to the boot, opens it, and pulls out a skateboard, which he tucks under his arm.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s do this quickly.”

Sanji walks to the main building with one hand shoved in his coat pocket and the other curled underneath the skateboard. He feels awkward, strange, certain that anyone looking for someone who is trying to hide would see through him right away.

Zoro walks on his left side, concentrating fully on his character. They don’t speak. Though chilly, the morning is turning out to be a blinding one, as a sun unencumbered by clouds rises over the hospital’s eastern side, turning every white surface into a burning-magnesium-bright assault on the eyes. They keep their eyes downcast as much as possible, so much so that Sanji almost walks into the bin outside the front doors.

Once inside, they regroup. Zoro gets in line at the coffee station while Sanji walks slowly to the front desk, eyeing the unfamiliar figure standing behind it. The young woman from his previous visit is gone – this time Sanji is faced with a tired-looking older man with a deeply lined face. His clean white get-up is that of a nurse rather than a receptionist. Sanji waits quietly, trying not to appear nervous or impatient, while he taps away on the computer keyboard, his glasses hanging almost off the end of his nose.

Finally, he looks up. “Can I help you?”

As Sanji opens his mouth to reply, he has a horrible thought. His mouth works but nothing comes out, and a cold sweat washes queasily over his body; down his back, his arms and legs, into his hands and feet like a wave. He knows he must look terrible; pale and sick and trembling, and he can see the nurse studying his face worriedly. He manages to get out what he needs to say. The nurse taps at the keyboard again, looks up at him, and nods, and Sanji feels eyes on his back all the way to the elevator.

Zoro appears next to him as he steps inside and pushes the button for the floor he needs. He’s holding an insulated cardboard cup with what looks like very strong coffee inside.

Wordlessly, Zoro offers it to him, and when Sanji looks at him querulously, he says, “You need it more than I do.”

“Zoro,” Sanji says quietly. “I just had a horrible thought.”

“Save it,” Zoro says. His mouth is set in a straight, hard line, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the line bisecting the lift doors. “What happens now happens.”

Sanji swallows. His throat feels tight, as though Tatsuya is already closing his hands around it. The coffee cup sits forgotten in his hand.  
When they step out onto the correct floor his hands are still shaking, but his mind is set. Zoro moves in front of him and Sanji concentrates on the slope of his shoulders, the brown slope of his neck, the easy way he carries himself when he knows he’s not being watched. Zoro, again, is a comfort. His presence seems to say _I will keep you safe. Stay with me._ Sanji swallows.

Too soon, they arrive at the door to Law’s room. The corridor around them is a quiet, early morning haze of slow beeps and shuffles, nurses walking softly past on slippered feet. Sanji looks at Zoro and says, “Please stay here. I won’t be long.”

He opens the door and steps inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some time later, though not enough, Sanji steps back out into the hallway, and finds that Zoro is gone.

He feels numb, sluggish, like he’s been given a sedative. His eyes are hot and red. There are half-moons carved into his palms. That Zoro isn’t there doesn’t quite register at first – he simply realises that he is alone, and starts to walk towards the lift doors. It’s only when he’s reaching for the button that he stops, starts, looks around, and begins to panic. As he’s trying to decide whether to call the lift and go back to the ground floor, the lift doors ping and Zoro bustles through them, dragging Sanji along with him towards the stairwell at the other end of the hallway.

“Zoro,” Sanji says breathlessly, “the car.”

“I know,” Zoro replies, and pulls him along even faster.

When they get near the door Zoro lets go and rushes headlong up the stairs, Sanji following behind. From underneath comes the echo of boots stamping up from several floors below them – Sanji urges himself on faster, so fast that he’s in danger of colliding with Zoro in front. White walls and green doors flash past. On each landing he swings himself in an arc by the corner of the railing and keeps going, up and up until his thighs are burning and his body is covered in sweat.

Then they reach the top, and Zoro is opening the door, and light shines in like a beacon and draws them out. The sky is a velvet blue streaked with long wisps of cloud, and the city stretches out below them. Zoro slams the door shut and together they drag a heavy piece of box-shaped metal in front of it.

They stop, and look at each other. Sanji’s breath hitches in his chest. In the sunlight Zoro’s skin is golden, his eyes darkened gold, his strong brow and sharp nose and high cheekbones perfection; beautiful. Sanji is taken by him. He realises that he’s fallen in love, and here they are, about to die.

“We’re not going to die up here,” Zoro says, still looking at him. Sanji wonders if he’s been speaking aloud without noticing it. “We’re going to fight, and we’re going to win.”

A voice comes from behind them.

It says, “Wrong.”

A chill runs down Sanji’s spine and his hands begin to sweat. That voice is unmistakeable – it’s the unaffected cruel tone of Tatsuya – here, with them. And Zoro without his sword. He feels faint as he turns around to see Tatsuya stepping towards them from behind the box with the door to the stairwell. He’s somehow taller than Sanji remembers – his eyes darker, his face sharper, his fingers longer. He’s far, far worse than the demon from Sanji’s nightmares.

“They weren’t meant to catch us,” Zoro says, gesturing to the utter lack of noise coming from behind the door.

Tatsuya shakes his head. “No.”

“I’m surprised you’re here,” Zoro continues. “Why not leave this to someone else?”

“Mr. Roronoa,” Tatsuya intones, coldly, and Sanji’s legs begin to shake – “I’d say we’re both aware that even in your current unarmed state, none of my employees would be a match for you. I’m much more assured of ending this by facing you myself.”

“Me? Just me?”

Tatsuya stares.

“This is my fault,” Sanji blurts out. “Zoro has nothing to do w – “

“No.” Tatsuya’s voice is a knife edge. “You would do well not to lie to me, Roronoa, considering how much of it you have done up until this point.”

“So you know,” Zoro says. Sanji is shocked to find that his voice is faintly amused – but only for a moment. This is Zoro, after all.

“How could I not?” You hid yourself well at first, but after you were spotted in Tokyo, well…”

Zoro grins, not kindly. “You had us followed.”

“Oh, no. Manpower is wasted on such things. We’ve been tracking your car.”

Zoro shifts his stance just enough that it becomes immediately threatening. “You talk too much. Is there anything else you’d like to tell us before I kick your ass?”

“Just one thing.”

“Yes?”

“You’re fired.”

Tatsuya moves like a striking weasel, his long body sinewy and smooth, his eyes dark and cruelly focussed. Sanji takes a few steps back out of reflex, but Tatsuya isn’t headed for him – he goes straight for Zoro and lashes out with a previously-concealed knife, with a blade as long as Sanji’s hand. He never saw it being drawn, but suddenly it comes striking down at Zoro’s face, and the swordsman is fighting for his life.

The first thing Zoro says is “Stay back, Sanji!”

And Sanji obeys, though only because he doesn’t know what else to do. Zoro and Tatsuya are moving so fast that Sanji fears he’d just as soon stab his friend as he would the Yakuza boss, and the last thing he wants is to mess things up by getting in the way. So he hangs back and watches, and his heart bangs inside his chest like it’s trying to get out.

He watches as Tatsuya drives Zoro gradually backwards, towards the too-low lip of the hospital roof edge.

Before Sanji can say anything, before he can shout a warning, or even move, Tatsuya slashes a line at Zoro’s throat. It misses, but Zoro is put off-balance by his evasion, and the heel of his boot hits the edge. Then Tatsuya pulls out a gun – again, from where? – and fires it in Zoro’s face, and Zoro is gone.

Sanji screams. Not a word, not anything intelligible, no – it’s more a howl, a shriek. Even to his own ears it sounds inhuman. And with Zoro over the edge without a sound, Sanji is suddenly sure that the swordsman is dead, and his heart clenches in agony, and he falls to his knees.

Tatsuya turns and walks slowly towards him, but Sanji doesn’t move. There’s a horrible rush in his ears, like the sound of an incoming wave.

Because there _is_ an incoming wave. Surrounding the hospital, on the horizon and rapidly approaching, is a mountain, black as pitch and roiling, swallowing the city around them. Tatsuya is moving closer but the wave is much, much faster. Already the apartment buildings in the city centre are gone, as is the park, and the main street, and the highway which runs through the middle of the city like a gash. Sanji looks up and sees the blue sky replaced by thick, dark clouds. He looks below and sees that everything is covered in heavy fog. The hospital is an island in a dying world.

Tatsuya stands before him. He says, “Stand up,” and suddenly Sanji finds that his legs are working after all. He stands, and pulls out a knife.

Tatsuya looks at it and sneers. “A child’s toy,” he says, and attacks.

For a moment there is a flurry of motion – Tatsuya’s striking arm, blocked painfully with Sanji’s own; his legs, finding ground even as Tatsuya attempts to upend him; his right arm, burning as Tatsuya’s knife cuts deeply into the skin just below the crook of his elbow; his head, suddenly ringing when Tatsuya’s empty hand makes contact. A moment later Sanji’s knife is gone, kicked from his hand, and Tatsuya has him.

So quick. So foolish. Sanji’s head is empty, ringing. The ground around them is soaked with salt spray as the wave hits and washes over the edge of the building on every side, crashing against the walls, smashing the windows, shaking the hospital to its core. Sanji howls again and tears at Tatsuya’s arm as the Yakuza boss restrains him from behind and slowly starts to choke him. His legs kick out uselessly as he struggles. Rain falls in drops which seem as thick as soup, and Sanji’s blood runs into his hand.

Tatsuya’s voice, in his ear – “You will serve as a lesson for others, yes, but this is for the trouble you both have caused me – be glad that your death will be no worse than this.”

“My… death…” Sanji chokes, and reaches into his jacket where his true blade is hiding, his beautiful silvery blade with its pearl handle – “is not… yours… to give!”

The blade sinks horribly into Tatsuya’s side. For a moment there’s nothing. The rain continues to fall. Sanji’s vision blackens. And then Sanji frees the knife, and Tatsuya is stumbling away from him, towards the edge where Zoro fell. Red blossoms on his pristine white shirt like a rose, though the amount is surprisingly little.

Sanji watches, unfeeling, as Tatsuya attempts to walk towards the stairwell door, only to fall to the ground several feet away. Sanji closes his eyes against the rain and raises his face, taking it all in. _It’s done_.

In a haze of pain and post-battle adrenaline, his mind wanders. He thinks back to his life before all this, the utter despair of his living conditions, the warm glow of Law’s affection… and finds, as he knows he will, that he doesn’t miss it. He considers the changes that meeting Zoro has made to his life and decides they were all for the better, even if it came at the cost of his relationship with Law. Because what was that, really? Law was a client, a man who paid to have sex with him. He was kind, but not as kind as Sanji likes to remember, and he was there, but not there in the way that Zoro has been.

Really, Sanji fears that separation has made his heart grow colder, that if he could just hold Law again things might be okay. But their confrontation in Law’s room had gone about as badly as Sanji expected, with everything wrong in their relationship coming to light – everything laid bare, every word caustic, every breath sharp and horrible. Sanji doesn’t wish to go back to that. At least Zoro – Zoro who lied to him, Zoro who saved his life – is all there on the surface, hardly anything hidden beneath. Even though they’ve had their fights, Sanji feels, maybe foolishly, that Zoro gets him in a way Law never did.

Sanji doesn’t want to think that Zoro might be alive down there, because false hope feels dangerous. He imagines instead that the wave took him softly out to sea, where he might float for a while.

His eyes are still closed when something incredibly solid slams into him and pushes him to the ground. Dimly he’s aware of a loud _crack_ and a singing noise as something flies past his ear.

Seconds tick by, and nothing else happens. The world comes back into focus.

Sanji is crying even before he sees Zoro’s face, before he drags himself that inch closer and kisses his mouth, his nose, the corner of his eye. He’s laughing, and he’s bleeding but he doesn’t care because Zoro is alive.

“How?” he shouts, euphoric. “How?”

“Bastard forgot to look over the edge,” Zoro says, looking slightly dazed. It could be the gunshot, or the hard knock he took getting Sanji to the ground, or the fact that Sanji is looking at him like he wants to kiss him again.

“I thought -” Sanji chokes, crying again, “I thought the wave got you.”

Zoro does him a kindness by hiding his confusion. Sanji will realise soon, without help, that his mind had gone someplace else in the minutes following Zoro’s ‘death’.

“No, it didn’t. I held on.”

“You did,” Sanji laughs. “Thank you. Oh God, thank you.”

“For what?” Zoro says, mouth surprised as Sanji moves slightly closer.

“For everything,” Sanji replies, and kisses him again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sanji is more than a little surprised to find that the city is still standing when he steps outside the hospital. Bandaged and pleasantly drugged with pain meds, he’d begged the doctors to let him out to smoke, and they’d finally agreed, though they’d seemed a little hesitant to let him go alone.

It’s cold out, but Sanji has a coat (bought to him by Zoro’s uncle, of all people, from his pile of things at the house). Dracule Mihawk had been and gone, leaving in his wake the smell of candle smoke and something oddly sweet, like syrup. They’d talked but briefly, with Mihawk assuring Sanji he’d be back the next day when the two of them were released.

After several minutes of questioning the nurses, Sanji had figured out that the actual extent of Zoro’s injuries wasn’t so bad after all. Tatsuya’s first bullet had only grazed his temple, and the bruises all over his body would heal easily enough. For Sanji himself, the cut on his arm had been quite serious, and had required stitches. He was also being watched for signs of concussion.

Now, though, standing in the fresh night air, sucking cigarette smoke into his lungs, Sanji feels just fine.

A little shell-shocked, maybe, but fine.

Sanji stands in the winter cold and thinks about the things he has left to do. Most of those things relate to Zoro, but there’s his flat, too, and the tenuous, delicate thread of thought that leads to maybe finding a new job. For the first time in years Sanji feels hopeful. Rubbed raw, yes, and aching all over, but hopeful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sanji wakes sometime in the middle of the night to Zoro firmly shaking his shoulder. Fearing the worst, he sits bolt upright, staring at Zoro with the question of fight or flight written on his face.

But Zoro shakes his head and shushes him, though Sanji hadn’t said anything.

He whispers, “Is something wrong?”

Still shaking his head, Zoro says, “No. Well, yes, but it’s okay.”

“What? What is it?”

“I have a feeling that once they’ve collected enough evidence of my involvement with Tatsuya’s organisation, they’ll arrest me. Even with my testimony against him I’m not sure I’ll escape a prison sentence.”

About to protest, Sanji instead thinks for a moment and says, “Yes… yes, you’re probably right.”

“So,” Zoro sighs, “I’m about my make my great escape. I don’t have much time before they come looking for me.”

“Where will you go?”

“Somewhere no one knows me, for a while… after that, I don’t know. Tokyo, maybe.”

Sanji looks at Zoro’s face. There’s a thick bandage on his right temple where Tetsuya’s first bullet grazed him, but he is otherwise unmarked. His golden eye shines darkly in the meagre light filtering through the blinds over the window.

Sanji reaches up to touch the bare side of his face, softly, carefully. He sees Zoro’s intake of breath, held in his chest, waiting.

“Will I see you again?” Fear clenches his body, and he tries not to look too hopeful.

Zoro moves suddenly closer and, in a startling display of affection, kisses Sanji’s forehead, and presses his own to it. “Come find me,” he says, and a moment later he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’d like to apologise for a couple things…
> 
> First of all; to the scant few of you who kept up with this fic, thank you, and I’m sorry it’s been so long. This is most definitely the last chapter (I might be re-writing the final few parts of Ch.6 in Zoro's POV though...). I’m also sorry about the probably dozens of plot holes in this – I have no beta and no patience for in-depth proof-reading, so a lot of the details from the first chapter to the sixth are probably very different… 
> 
> Secondly, I’d like to apologise for any weirdness with Law’s portrayal. This is my first time writing him, and getting a handle on that was a little difficult. I find writing any One Piece character who isn't a Strawhat especially challenging. I also made a mistake, I think, when I chose LawSan to be the main focus of this fic. It should be apparent now that at some point I stopped being so interested in it and began to give much more attention to ZoSan. I wish now that I’d written the relationship parts of this fic a little differently, though in a lot of ways I’m still happy about the way things turned out. Most importantly, I think, I’ve had fun with this. It’s taught me to research better, to finish things before I publish them, and to not worry so much about my characterisation. I feel like I know Zoro & Sanji better for it, even though I haven’t been keeping up with One Piece for quite some time.
> 
> So I just want to thank anyone who stuck with this story! Your attention means so much to me. I really loved writing this (when I did write it… ha). I really hope I can write something like it again someday!


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